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GYPSY'S 
OUSIN  JOY 


ELIZABETH 
STUART 
PHELPS 


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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 

DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 

SOCIETIES 


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T>.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
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RET. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


A 


PRESENTED  BY  THE 

WILLIAM  A.  WHITAKER 

FOUNDATION 


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— I  t    "* 

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This  book  is  due  at  the  LOUIS  R.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it  may  be 
renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DATE                    RET 

DATE 
DUE 

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- 

ACT  1M378 

*Y3  076 

20llf 

te£aa~~-    w 

p  o  1  iftf 

\ 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

GRAVES  &  YOUNG, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  for  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 

Copyright,  1S95,  by  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward- 


PREFACE. 

Having  been  asked  to  write  a  preface 
to  the  new  edition  of  the  Gypsy  books,  I 
am  not  a  little  perplexed.  I  was  hardly 
more  than  a  girl  myself,  when  I  recorded 
the  history  of  this  young  person;  and  I 
find  it  hard,  at  this  distance,  to  photograph 
her  as  she  looks,  or  ought  to  look  to-day. 
She  does  not  sit  still  long  enough  to  be 
"taken."  I  see  a  lively  girl  in  pretty  short 
dresses  and  very  long  stockings, — quite  a 
Tom-boy,  if  I  remember  rightly.  She  pad- 
dles a  raft,  she  climbs  a  tree,  she  skates 
and  tramps  and  coasts,  she  is  usually  very 
muddy,  and  a  little  torn.  There  is  apt  to 
be  a  pin  in  her  gathers;  but  there  is  sure 
to  be  a  laugh  in  her  eyes.  Wherever  there 
is   mischief,    there   is    Gypsy.     Yet,    wherever 


there  is  fun,  and  health,  and  hope,  and  hap- 
piness,—  and  I  think,  wherever  there  is  truth- 
fulness   and   generosity, —  there  is  Gypsy,  too. 

And  now,  the  publishers  tell  me  that 
Gypsy  is  thirty  years  old,  and  that  girls 
who  were  not  so  much  as  born  when  I 
knew  the  little  lady,  are  her  readers  and 
her   friends    to-day. 

Thirty  years  old?  Indeed,  it  is  more  than 
that!  For  is  it  not  thirty  years  since  the 
publication  of  her  memoirs?  And  was  she, 
at  that  time,  possibly  sixteen?  Forty-six 
years?  Incredible!  How  in  the  world  did 
Gypsy  "  grow  up  ?"  For  that  was  before  tobog- 
gans and  telephones,  before  bicycles  and 
electric  cars,  before  bangs  and  puffed 
sleeves,  before  girls  studied  Greek,  and  golf- 
capes  came  in.  Did  she  go  to  college  ?  For 
the  Annex,  and  Smith,  and  Wellesley  were 
not.  Did  she  have  a  career  ?  Or  take  a  hus- 
band? Did  she  edit  a  Quarterly  Review,  or 
sing  a  baby  to    sleep?    Did  she  write  poetry, 


or  make  pies?  Did  she  practice  medicine, 
or  matrimony?  Who  knows?  Not  even  the 
author  of  her  being. 

Only  one  thing  I  do  know:  Gypsy  never 
grew  up  to  be  "timid,"  or  silly,  or  mean, 
or  lazy;  but  a  sensible  woman,  true  and 
strong;  asking  little  help  of  other  people, 
but  giving  much;  an  honor  to  her  brave 
and  loving  sex,  and  a  safe  comrade  to  the 
girls  who  kept  step  with  her  into  middle 
life;  and  I  trust  that  I  may  bespeak  from 
their  daughters  and  their  scholars  a  kindly 
welcome  to   an   old   story,    told  again. 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps. 

Newton  Centre,  Mass., 
April,  sSgj. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I. 

MOB 

News 7 

CHAPTER   II. 
Shai  l  She  Come  ? 24 

CHAPTER   III. 
One  Evening .4° 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Chestnuts 54 

CHAPTER    V. 
Gypsy  makes  a  Discovery 82 

CHAPTER   VI. 
Who  put  it  in  ? 99 

CHAPTER   VII. 
Peace  Maythorne's  Room 122 


XI  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER   VIII. 

PACK 

The  Story  of  a  Night ^8 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Up  Rattlesnake 187 

CHAPTER  X. 
We  are  Lost .211 

CHAPTER  XI. 
Grand  Times •       •     229 

CHAPTER  XII. 
A  Telegram •       ■     243 

CHAPTER   XIII. 
A  Sunday  Night       .......     263 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
Good-bye    ......       r      •      •    274 


•&^S^Efi5sflt^9 


H  E  second  arithmetic  class 
had  just  come  out  to  recite, 
when  somebody  knocked  at 
the  door.  Miss  Cardrew  sent 
Delia  Guest  to  open  it. 
"  It's  a — ha,  ha!  letter — he, 
J  he!  for  you,"  said  Delia,  coming 
"I  up  to  the  desk.  Exactly  where- 
in lay  the  joke,  in  the  fact  that  Miss 
Cardrew  should  have  a  letter,  nobody  but 
Delia  was  capable  of  seeing;  but  Delia  was 
given  to  seeing   jokes  on    all  occasions,  under 


all  circumstances.  Go  wherever  you  might, 
from  a  prayer-meeting  to  the  playground,  you 
were  sure  to  hear  her  little  giggle. 

"A  letter  for  you,"    repeated   Delia   Guest. 
51  He,   he!  " 

Miss    Cardrew    laid    down    her     arithmetic, 
opened  the  letter,  and  read  it. 
"Gypsy  Breynton." 

The    arithmetic    class 

stopped    whispering, 

jg$^S>  and    there   was  a    great 

lull    in    the    school- 


room. 

"Why    I  never!" 

giggled    Delia.      Gypsy, 

all  in  a  flutter  at  having 

|  her  name  read  right  out 


fU-, 
'  in    school,    and    divided 

between   her   horror   lest    the    kitten    she    had 

tied  to  a  spool    of  thread  at   recess,   had  been 

discovered,  and    an    awful    suspicion   that    Mr. 

Jonathan  Jones  saw  her  run  across  his  plowed 


field  after  chestnuts,  went  slowly  up  to  the 
desk. 

' '  Your  mother  has  sent  for  you  to  come 
directly  home,"  said  Miss  Cardrew,  in  a  low 
tone.     Gypsy  looked  a  little  frightened. 

"Go  home!  Is  anybody  sick,  Miss  Car- 
drew  ?  " 

"She  doesn't  say — she  gives  no  reasons. 
You'd   better   not   stop   to   talk,    Gypsy." 

Gypsy  went  to  her  desk,  and  began  to 
gather  up  her  books  as  fast  as  she  could. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  if  the  house'd 
caught  afire,"  whispered  Agnes  Gaylord.  "  I 
had  an  uncle  once,  and  his  house  caught  afire — 
in  the  chimney  too,  and  everybody'd  gone  to  a 
prayer-meeting  ;  they  had  now,  true's  you 
live." 

"  Maybe  your  father's  dead,"  condoled  Sarah 
Rowe. 

"  Or  Winnie." 

"Or  Tom." 

"Just  think  of  it!  " 

9 


"What  do  you  s'pose  it  is  ?" 

"  If  I  were  you,  I  guess  I'd  be  frightened! " 

"Order!"  said  Miss  Cardrew,  in  a  loud 
voice. 

The  girls  stopped  whispering,  and  Gypsy 
in  nowise  reassured  by  their  sympathy,  hur- 
ried out  to  put  on  her  things.  With  her 
hat  thrown  on  one  side  of  her  head,  the 
strings  hanging  down  into  her  eyes,  her  sack 
rolled  up  in  a  bundle  under  her  arm,  and  her 
rubbers  in  her  pocket,  she  started  for  home 
on  the  full  run.  Yorkbury  was  pretty  well 
used  to  Gypsy,  but  everybody  stopped  and 
stared  at  her  that  morning  ;  what  with  her 
burning  cheeks,  and  those  rubbers  sticking 
out  of  her  pocket,  and  the  hat-strings  flying, 
and  the  brambles  catching  her  dress,  and  the 
mud  splashing  up  under  her  swift  feet,  it  was 
no  wonder. 

"Miss  Gypsy!"  called  old  Mr.  Simms,  the 
clerk,  as  she  flew  by  the  door  of  her  father's 
book-store.      "Miss    Gypsy,    my   dear/" 


But  on  ran  Gypsy  without  so  mucn  as 
giving  him  a  look,  across  the  road  in  front 
of  a  carriage,  around  a  load  of  hay,  and 
away  like  a  bird  down  the  street.  Out  ran 
Gypsy's  pet  aversion,  Mrs.  Surly,  from  a 
shop-door   somewhere — 

"Gypsy  Breynton,  what  a  sight  you  be! 
I    believe   you've   gone    clear   crazy — Gypsy !  " 

"Can't  stop!"  shouted  Gypsy,  "it's  a  fire 
or  something  somewhere." 

Eight  small  boys  at  the  word  "fire"  ap- 
peared on  the  instant  from  nobody  knew 
where,  and  ran  after  her  with  hoarse  yells  of 

"fire!    fire!      Where's   the   engine?      Vi 

ir-r- ! "  By  this  time,  too,  three  dogs  and  a 
nanny-goat  were  chasing  her;  the  dogs  were 
barking,  and  the  nanny-goat  was  baaing  or 
braying,  or  whatever  it  is  that  nanny-goats  do, 
so  she  swept  up  to  the  house  in  a  unique, 
triumphal  procession. 

Winnie  came  out  to  meet  her  as  she  came 
in  fl.t  "-he  gate  panting  and  scarlet-faced. 


Fifty  years  instead  of  five  might  Win- 
nie have  been  at  that  moment,  and  all  the 
cares  of  Church  and  State  on  the  shoulders 
of  his  pinafore,  to  judge  from  the  pucker  in 
his  chin.  There  was  always  a  pucker  in  Win- 
nie's chin,  when  he  felt — as  the  boys  call  it — 
"big." 

"What  do  s'pose,  Gypsy? — don't  you  wish 
you  knew?  " 

"What?" 

" Oh,  no  matter,     /know." 

"  Winnie  Breynton!  " 

"Well,"  said  Winnie,  with  the  air  of  a  Grand 
Mogul  feeding  a  chicken,  "  I  don't  care  if  I  tell 
you.     We've  had  a  temmygral." 

"  A  telegram!" 

"I  just  guess  we  have;  you'd  oughter  seen 
the  man.      He'd  lost  his  nose,  and " 

"A  telegram!  Is  there  any  bad  news? 
Where  did  it  come  from?" 

"  It  came  from  Bosting,"  said  Winnie,  with  a 
superior    smile.      "  I    s'posed   you   knew   that.' 


It'u  sumfin  abou4"  Aunt  Miranda,  I  shouldn't 
wonder." 

"Aunt  Miranda!  Is  anybody  sick?  Is  any- 
body dead,  or  anything? " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Winnie,  cheerfully. 
"  But  I  guess  you  wish  you'd  seen  the  en- 
velope. It  had  the  funniest  little  letters 
punched  through  on  top — it  did  now,  really." 

Gypsy  ran  into  the  house  at  that,  and  left 
Winnie  to  his  meditations. 

Her  mother  called  her  from  over  the  ban- 
isters, and  she  ran  upstairs.  A  small  trunk 
stood  open  by  the  bed,  and  the  room  was  filled 
with  the  confusion  of  packing. 

"Your  Aunt  Miranda  is  sick,"  said  Mrs. 
Breynton. 

"What  are  you  packing  up  for?  You're  not 
going  off!"  exclaimed  Gypsy,  incapable  of 
taking  in  a  greater  calamity  than  that,  and 
quite  forgetting  Aunt  Miranda. 

"  Yes.  Your  uncle  has  written  for  us  to 
come  right  on.     She  is  very  sick,  Gypsy." 


"Oh!"  said  Gypsy,  penitently;  "danger- 
ous? " 

"Yes." 

Gypsy  looked  sober  because  her  mother  did, 
and  she  thought  she  ought  to. 

"Your  father  and  I  are  going  in  this  noon 
train,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Breynton,  rolling  up  a 
pair  of  slippers,  and  folding  a  wrapper  away  in 
the  trunk.  "  I  think  I  am  needed.  The  fever 
is  very  severe;  possibly  —  contagious,"  said 
Mrs.  Breynton,  quietly.  Mrs.  Breynton  made 
it  a  rule  to  have  very  few  concealments  from 
her  children.  .  All  family  plans  which  could 
be,  were  openly  and  frankly  discussed.  She 
believed  that  it  did  the  children  good  to  feel 
that  they  had  a  share  in  them ;  that  it  did  them 
good  to  be  trusted.  She  never  kept  bad  tidings 
from  them  simply  because  they  were  bad.  The 
mysteries  and  prevarications  necessary  to  keep 
an  unimportant  secret,  were,  she  reasoned, 
worse  for  them  than  a  little  anxiety.  Gypsy 
must   know  some  time  about  her  aunt's  sick- 


ness.  She  preferred  she  should  hear  it  from 
her  mother's  lips,  see  for  herself  the  reasons 
for  this  sudden  departure  and  risk,  if  risk 
there  were,  and  be  woman  enough  to  under- 
stand them. 

Gypsy  looked  sober  now  in  earnest. 

"Why,  mother!  How  can  you?  What  if  you 
catch  it?  " 

"There  is  very  little  chance  of  that;  one 
possibility  in  a  hundred,  perhaps.  Help  me 
fold  up  this  dress,  Gypsy  —  no,  on  the  bed — 
so." 

"But  if  you  should  get  sick!  I  don't  see 
why  you  need  go.  She  isn't  your  own  sis- 
ter anyway,  and  she  never  did  anything  for 
us,   nor   cared    anything    for    us." 

"Your  uncle  wants  me,  and  that  is  enough. 
I  want  to  be  to  her  a  sister  if  I  can  —  poor 
thing,  she  has  no  sister  of  her  own,  and  no 
mother,  nobody  but  the  hired  nurses  with 
her  ;  and  she  may  die,  Gypsy.  If  I  can  be 
of    any   help,   I    am    glad   to    be." 


Her  mother  spoke  in  a  quiet,  decided  tone, 
with  which  Gypsy  knew  there  was  no  argu- 
ing. She  helped  her  fold  her  dresses  and 
lock  her  trunk,  very  silently,  for  Gypsy,  and 
then  ran  away  to  busy  herself  with  Patty 
in  getting  the  travelers'  luncheon.  When 
Gypsy  felt  badly,  she  always  hunted  up  some- 
thing to  do  ;  in  this  she  showed  the  very 
best  of  her  good  sense.  And  let  me  tell 
you,  girls,  as  a  little  secret  —  in  the  worst 
fits  of  the  "blues"  you  ever  have,  if  you 
are  guilty  of  having  any,  do  you  go  straight 
into  the  nursery  and  build  a  block  house  for 
the  baby,  or  upstairs  and  help  your  mother 
baste  for  the  machine,  or  into  the  dining- 
room  to  help  Bridget  set  the  table,  or  into 
the  corner  where  some  diminutive  brother  is 
crying  over  his  sums  which  a  very  few 
words  from  you  would  straighten,  or  into 
the  parlor  where  your  father  sits  shading  his 
eyes  from  the  lamp-light,  with  no  one  to 
read    him    the   paper  ;    and   before   you   know 


it,  you  will  be  as  happy  as  a  queen.  You 
don't    believe   it  ?     Try   and   see. 

Gypsy  drowned  her  sorrow  at  her  mother's 
departure,  in  broiling  her  mutton-chops  and 
cutting  her  pie,  and  by  the  time  the  coach 
drove  to  the  door,  and  the  travelers  stood 
in  the  entry  with  bag  and  baggage,  all  ready 
to  start,  the  smiles  had  come  back  to  her 
lips,  and    the    twinkle    to    her   eyes. 

''Good-bye,  father!  O — oh,  mother  Breyn- 
ton,  give  me  another  kiss.  There ! — one  more. 
Now,  if  you  don't  write  just  as  soon  as  you 
get    there ! " 

"Be  a  good  girl,  and  take  nice  care  of 
Winnie,"  called  her  mother  from  the  coach- 
window.  And  then  they  were  driven  rapidly 
away,  and  the  house  seemed  to  grow  still 
and  dark  all  at  once,  and  a  great  many 
clouds  to  be  in  the  warm,  autumn  sky.  The 
three  children  stood  a  moment  in  the  entry 
looking  forlornly  at  each  other.  I  beg  Tom's 
pardon — I  suppose  I  should  have  said  the  two 


children  and  the  "  young  man."  Probably 
never  again  in  his  life  will  Tom  feel  quite 
as  old  as  he  felt  in  that  sixteenth  year. 
Gypsy  was  the  first  to  break  the  dismal 
silence. 

"How  horrid  it's  going  to  be!  You  go 
upstairs  and  she  won't  be  there,  and  there'll 
be  nobody  coming  home  from  the  store  at 
night,  and,  then — you  go  round,  and  it's  so 
still,  and  nobody  but  me  to  keep  house,  and 
Patty  has  just  what  she  likes  for  breakfast, 
for  all  me,  and  /  think  Aunt  Miranda  needn't 
have    gone    and    been    sick,   anyway." 

"A  most  sensible  and  sympathizing  niece," 
observed   Tom,    in   his    patronizing   way. 

"Well,  you  see,  I  suppose  I  don't  care  very 
much  about  Aunt  Miranda,"  said  Gypsy,  con- 
fidentially. "  I'm  sorry  she's  sick,  but  I 
didn't  have  a  bit  nice  time  in  Boston  last 
vacation,  and  she  scolded  me  dreadfully  when 
I  blew  out  the  gas.  What  is  it,  Patty  ?  Oh, 
yes — come   to    dinner,   boys." 


"I    say,"    remarked    Winnie,    at    the    rather 
doleful    dinner-table,  "  look  here,  Gypsy." 
"What?" 
"  S'posin'    when    they'd    got    Aunt    Miranda 


all  nailed  into  her  coffin — tight  in — she  should 
be  ////-deaded,  and  open  her  eyes,  and  be- 
gin— begin  to  squeal,  you  know.  S'pose  they'd 
let    her    out  ?  " 

Just    four    days    from     the    morning    Mrs. 

J9 


Breynton  left,  Tom  came  up  from  the  office 
with  a  very  sober   face    and  a   letter. 

Gypsy  ran  out  to  meet  him,  and  put  out 
her  hand,  in  a  great  hurry  to  read  it. 

"I'll  read  it  to  you,"  said  Tom;  "it's  to 
me.     Come  into  the  parlor." 

They  went  in,  and  Tom  read: 

"My  Dear  Son: 

"  I  write  in  great  haste,  just  to  let  you  know 
that  your  Aunt  Miranda  is  gone.  She  died 
last  night  at  nine  o'clock,  in  great  distress.  I 
was  with  her  at  the  last.  I  am  glad  I  came — 
very  ;  it  seems  to  have  been  a  comfort  to 
her  ;  she  was  so  lonely  and  deserted.  The 
funeral  is  day  after  to-morrow,  and  we  shall 
stay  of  course.  We  hope  to  be  home  on 
Monday.  There  has  been  no  time  yet  to 
make  any  plans  ;  I  can't  tell  what  the  family 
will  do.  Poor  Joy  cannot  bear  to  be  left 
alone  a  minute.  She  follows  me  round  like  a 
frightened    child.     The    tears    come    into    my 


eyes  every  time  I  look  at  her,  for  the  thoughts 
of  three  dear,  distant  faces  that  might  be  left 
just  so,  but  for  God's  mercy  to  them  and  to 
me.  She  is  just  about  Gypsy's  age  and  height, 
you  know.  The  disease  proved  not  to  be 
contagious,  so  you  need  feel  no  anxiety.  A 
kiss  to  both  the  children.  Your  father  sends 
much  love.  We  shall  be  glad  to  get  home 
and   see   you   again. 

"  Very  lovingly, 

"Mother." 

Inside  the  n:>te  was  a  slip  for  Gypsy,  with 
this  written  on  it : 

"  I  must  stop  to  tell  you,  Gypsy,  of  a  little 
thing  your  aunt  said  the  day  before  she  died. 
She  had  been  speaking  of  Joy  in  her  weak, 
troubled  way — of  some  points  wherein  she 
hoped  she  would  be  a  different  woman  from 
her  mother,  and  had  then  lain  still  a  while,  her 
eyes  closed,  something  —  as  you  used  to- say 
when  you  were  a  little  girl  —  very  sorry  about 


her  mouth,  when  suddenly  she  turned  and  said, 
'  I  wish  I'd  made  Gypsy's  visit  here  a  little 
pleasanter.  Tell  her  she  must  think  as  well  as 
she  can  of  her  auntie,  for  Joy's  sake,  now.'  " 

Gypsy  folded  up  the  paper,  and  sat  silent  n 
moment,  thinking  her  own  thoughts,  as  Tom 
saw,  and  not  wishing  to  be  spoken  to. 

Those  of  you  who  have  read  "  Gypsy  Breyn- 
ton "  will  understand  what  these  thoughts 
might  be.  Those  who  have  not,  need  only 
know  that  Gypsy's  aunt  had  been  rather  a 
gay,  careless  -lady,  well  dressed  and  jeweled, 
and  fond  enough  of  dresses  and  jewels  ;  and 
that  in  a  certain  visit  Gypsy  made  her  not 
long  ago,  she  had  been  far  from  thoughtful  of 
her  country  niece's  comfort. 

And  this  was  how  it  had  ended.  Poor  Aunt 
Miranda ! 

''Well,"  said  Gypsy,  at  last,  with  something 
dim  in  her  eyes,  "  I  dare  say  I  was  green  and 
awkward,  and  it    was  half  my  fault.     I  never 


could  understand  how  people  could  just  turn 
round  when  anybody  dies,  and  say  they  were 
good  and  perfect,  when  it  wasn't  any  such  a 
thing,  and  I  can't  say  I  think  she  was,  for  it 
would  be  a  lie.  But  I  won't  say  anything  more 
against  her.  Poor  Joy,  poor  Joy!  Not  to 
have  any  mother,  Tom,  just  think!  Oh,  just 
think  I  " 


33 


P  P  E  R  was  ready. 
It  had  been  ready 
now  for  ten  minutes. 
The  cool,  white  cloth, 
bright  glass,  glitter- 
ing silver,  and  delicate  china 
painted  with  a  primrose  and 
an  ivy-leaf — the  best  china, 
and  very  extravagant  in 
Gypsy,  of  course,  but  she 
thought  the  occasion  deserved  it — were  all 
laid  in  their  places  upon  the  table.  The 
tea  was  steeped    to    precisely   the  right  point; 


the  rich,  mellow  flavor  had  just  escaped  the 
clover  taste  on  one  side,  and  the  bitterness  of 
too  much  boiling  on  the  other;  the  deli- 
cately sugared  apples  were  floating  in  their 
amber  juices  in  the  round  glass  preserve- 
dish,  the  smoked  halibut  was  done  to  the  most 
delightful  brown  crispness,  the  puffy,  golden 
drop-cakes  were  smoking  from  the  oven,  and 
Patty  was  growling  as  nobody  but  Patty  could 
growl,  for  fear  they  would  "slump  down  in- 
tirely  an'  be  gittin'  as  heavy  as  lead,"  before 
they  could  be  eaten. 

There  was  a  bright  fire  in  the  dining-room 
grate;  the  golden  light  was  dancing  a  jig  all 
over  the  walls,  hiding  behind  the  curtains,  co- 
quetting with  the  silver,  and  touching  the 
primroses  on  the  plates  to  a  perfect  sunbeam ; 
for  father  and  mother  were  coming.  Tom  and 
Gypsy  and  Winnie  were  all  three  running  to 
the  windows  and  the  door  every  two  minutes 
and  dressed  in  their  very  "  Sunday-go-to-meet- 
ing best;  "  for  father  and   mother   were   com- 


ing.  Tom  had  laughed  well  at  this  plan  of 
dressing  up — Gypsy's  notion,  of  course,  and 
ridiculous  enough,  said  Tom ;  fit  for  babies 
like  Winnie,  and  girls.  (I  wish  I  could  give 
you  in  print  the  peculiar  emphasis  with  which 
Tom  was  wont  to  dwell  on  this  word.)  But 
for  all  that,  when  Gypsy  came  down  in 
her  new  Scotch  plaid  dress,  with  her  cheeks 
so  red,  and  her  hair  so  smooth  and  black ; 
and  Winnie  strutted  across  the  room  counting 
the  buttons  on  his  best  jacket,  Tom  slipped 
away  to  his  room,  and  came  down  with  his 
purple  necktie  on. 

It  made  a  pretty,  homelike  picture — the 
bright  table  and  the  firelight,  and  the  eager 
faces  at  the  window,  and  the  gay  dresses. 
Any  father  and  mother  might  have  been  glad 
to  call  it  all  their  own,  and  come  into  it  out 
of  the  cold  and  the  dark,  after  a  weary  day's 
journey.       • 

These  cozy,  comfortable  touches  about    it — 
the    little    conceit    of    the    painted    china,   and 
26 


the  best  clothes — were  just  like  Gypsy.  Since 
she  was  glad  to  see  her  father  and  mother, 
it  was  imperatively  necessary  that  she  should 
show  it;  there  was  no  danger  but  what  her 
joy  would  have  been  sufficiently  evident — 
where  everything  else  was — in  her  eyes;  but 
according  to  Gypsy's  view  of  matters,  it  must 
express  itself  in  some  sort  of  celebration. 
Whether  her  mother  wouldn't  have  been 
quite  as  well  pleased  if  her  delicate,  ex- 
pensive porcelain  had  been  kept  safely  in  the 
closet;  whether,  indeed,  it  was  exactly  right 
for  her  to  take  it  out  without  leave,  Gypsy 
never  stopped  to  consider.  When  she  wanted 
to  do  a  thing,  she  could  never  see  any  rea- 
sons why  it  shouldn't  be  done,  like  a  few 
other  girls  I  have  heard  of  in  New  Eng- 
land. However,  just  such  a  mother  as  Gypsy 
had  was  quite  likely  to  pardon  such  a  little 
carelessness  as  this,  for  the  love  in  it,  and 
the  welcoming   thoughts. 

"They're    comin',    comin',  comin',"  shouted 
27 


Winnie,  from  the  door-steps,  where,  in  the 
exuberance  of  his  spirits,  he  was  trying  very 
hard  to  stand  on  his  head,  and  making  a 
most  remarkable  failure — "they're  comin' 
lickitycut,  and  I'm  five  years  old,  'n'  I've  got 
on  my  best  jacket,  'n'  they're  comin'  slam 
bang! " 

"Coming,  coming,  coming!"  echoed  Gypsy, 
about  as  wild  as  Winnie  himself,  and  flying 
past  him  dewn  to  the  gate,  leaving  Tom  to 
follow  in  Tom's  own  dignified  way. 

Such  a  kissing,  and  laughing,  and  talking, 
and  delightful-  confusion  as  there  was  then ! 
Such  a  shouldering  of  bags  and  valises  and 
shawls,  such  hurrying  of  mother  in  out  of  the 
cold;  such  a  pulling  of  father's  whiskers,  such 
peeping  into  mysterious  bundles,  and  pulling 
off  of  wrappers,  and  hurrying  Patty  with  the 
tea-things;  and  questions  and  answers,  and 
everybody  talking  at  once  — -  one  might  have 
supposed  the  travelers  had  been  gone  a  month 
instead  of  a  week. 

9& 


"My  kitty  had  a  fit,"  observed  Winnie,  in 
the  first  pause  he  could  find. 

"  And   there   are    some    letters  for  father," 

from  Tom. 

"  Patty  has  a  new  beau,"  interrupted  Gypsy. 

I 
"It  was  an  awfully  fit,"  put  in  Winnie,  un- 

discouraged;   "  she  rolled  under  the  stove,   'n'  I 

tell  you  she  squealed,  and ' ' 

"  How  is  uncle? "  asked  Tom,  and  it  was  the 
first  time  any  one  had  thought  to  ask. 

"Then  she  jumped — splash!  into  the  hogs- 
head," continued  Winnie,  determined  to  finish. 

"He  is  not  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Breynton, 
gravely,  and  then  they  sat  down  to  supper, 
talking  the  while  about  him.  Winnie  subsided 
in  great  disgust,  and  devoted  himself,  body, 
mind,  and  heart,  to  the  drop-cakes. 

"Ah,  the  best  china,  I  see,"  said  Mrs. 
Breynton,  presently,  with  one  of  her  pleas- 
antest  smiles,  and  as  Mrs.  Breynton's  smiles 
were  always  pleasant,  this  was  saying  a  great 
deal.      "And   the    Sunday  things  on,   too — in 


honor  of  our  coming?  How  pleasant  it  all 
seems!  and  how  glad  I  am  to  be  at  home 
again." 

Gypsy  looked  radiant — very  much,  in  fact, 
like  a  little  sun  dropped  down  from  the  sky,  or 
a  jewel  all  ablaze. 

Some  mothers  would  have  reproved  her 
for  the  use  of  the  china;  some  who  had  not 
quite  the  heart  to  reprove  would  have  said 
they  were  sorry  she  had  taken  it  out.  Mrs. 
Breynton  would  rather  have  had  her  hand- 
some plates  broken  to  atoms  than  to  chill, 
by  so  much  as  a  look,  the  glow  of  the 
child's    face    just  then. 

There  was  decidedly  more  talking  than 
eating  done  at  supper,  and  they  lingered 
long  at  the  table,  in  the  pleasant  firelight 
and  lamplight. 

"  It  seems  exactly  like  the  resurrection 
day    for   all    the    world,"    said  Gypsy. 

"The    resurrection    day?" 

"Why,    yes.     When    you    went   off    I    kept 


thinking  everybody  was  dead  and  buried,  all 
that  morning,  and  it  was  real  horrid — Oh, 
you    don't   know !  " 


"  Gypsy,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  a  while  after 
supper,  when  Winnie  had  gone  to  bed,  and 
Tom  and  his  father  were  casting  accounts  by 

3i 


the  fire,  "  I  want  to  see  you  a  few  minutes." 
Gypsy,  wondering,  followed  her  into  the  par- 
lor. Mrs.  Breynton  shut  the  door,  and  they 
sat    down    together  on    the   sofa. 

"  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  Gypsy, 
about  something  that  we'd  better  talk  over 
alone." 

"Yes'm,"said  Gypsy,  quite  bewildered  by 
her  mother's  grave  manner,  and  thinking  up 
all  the  wrong  things  she  had  done  for  a 
week.  Whether  it  was  the  time  she  got  so 
provoked  at  Patty  for  having  dinner  late, 
or  scolded  Winnie  for  trying  to  paint  with 
the  starch  (and  if  ever  any  child  deserved  it, 
he  did),  or  got  kept  after  school  for  whispering, 
or  brought  down  the  nice  company  quince  mar- 
malade to  eat  with  the  blanc  mange,  or 
whether 

"  You  haven't  asked  about  your  cousin,  Joy," 
said  her  mother,  interrupting  her  thinking. 

"Oh! — how  is  she?"  said  Gypsy,  looking 
somewhat  ashamed. 


"  I  am  sorry  for  the  child,"  said  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton.  musingly. 

"  What's  going  to  become  of  her?  Who's 
going  to  take  care  of  her?  " 

"That  is  just  what  I  came  in  here  to  talk. 
about." 

"  Why.  I  don't  see  what  I  have  to  do  with 
it !  "  said  Gypsy,  astonished. 

"  Her  father  thinks  of  going  abroad,  and  so 
there  would  be  no  one  to  leave  her  with.  He 
finds  himself  quite  worn  out  by  your  aunt's 
sickness,  the  care  and  anxiety  and  trouble. 
His  business  also  requires  some  member  of  the 
firm  to  go  to  France  this  fall,  and  he  has 
almost  decided  to  go.  The  only  thing  that 
makes  him  hesitate  is  Joy." 

"I  see  what  you  mean  now,  mother — I  see 
it  in  your  eyes.  You  want  Joy  to  come  here." 
Gypsy  spoke  in  a  slow,  uncomfortable  way,  as 
if  she  were  trying  very  hard  not  to  believe  her 
own  words. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  "that  is  it." 


Gypsy's  bright  face  fell.  "Well?"  she  said, 
at  last. 

11 1  told  your  uncle,  "  said  her  mother,  "  that 
I  could  not  decide  on  the  spot,  but  would  let 
him  know  next  week.  The  question  of  Joy's 
coming  here  will  affect  you  more  than  any 
member  of  the  family,  and  I  thought  it  only 
fair  to  you  that  we  should  talk  it  over  frankly 
before  it  is  settled." 

Gypsy  had  a  vague  notion  that  all  mothers 
would  not  have  been  so  thoughtful,  but  she 
said  nothing. 

"I  do  not-  wish,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Breynton, 
' '  to  make  any  arrangement  in  which  you  can- 
not be  happy;  but  I  have  great  faith  in  your 
kind  heart,  Gypsy." 

"I  don't  like  Joy,"  said  Gypsy,  bluntly. 

"  I  know  that,  and  I  am  sorry  it  is  so,"  said 
her  mother.  "  I  understand  just  what  Joy  is. 
But  it  is  not  all  her  fault.  She  has  not  been 
trained  just  as  you  have,  Gypsy.  She  was 
never   taught   and    helped   to   be   a  generous, 


gentle  child,  as  you  have  been  taught  and 
helped.  Your  uncle  and  aunt  felt  differently 
about  these  things;  but  it  is  no  matter  about 
that  now  —  you  will  understand  it  better  when 
you  are  older.  It  is  enough  for  you  to  know 
that  Joy  has  great  excuse  for  her  faults.  Even 
if  they  were  twice  as  great  as  they  are,  one 
wouldn't  think  much  about  them  now;  the  poor 
child  is  in  great  trouble,  lonely  and  frightened 
and  motherless.  Think,  if  God  took  awa}T 
your  mother,  Gypsy." 

"But  Joy  didn't  care  much  about  her 
mother,"  said  honest  Gypsy.  "She  used  to 
scold  her,  Joy  told  me  so  herself.  Besides,  I 
heard  her,  ever  so  many  times." 

"Peace  be  with  the  dead,  Gypsy;  let  all 
that  go.  She  was  all  the  mother  Joy  had,  and 
if  you  had  seen  what  I  saw  a  night  or  two 
before  I  came  away,  you  wouldn't  say  she 
didn't  love  her." 

"  What  was  it?  "  asked  Gypsy. 

"Your  auntie    was   lying  all  alone,  upstairs. 

35 


I  went  in  softly,  to  do  one  or  two  little  things 
about  the  room,  thinking  no  one  was  there. 

"  One  faint  gaslight  was  burning,  and  in  the 
dimness  I  saw  that  the  sheet  was  turned  down 
from  the  face,  and  a  poor  little  quivering  figure 
was  crouched  beside  it  on  the  bed.  It  was  Joy. 
She  was  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 
and  such  sobs — it  would  have  made  you  cry  to 
hear  them,  Gypsy.  She  didn't  hear  me  come 
in,  and  she  began  to  talk  to  the  dead  face  as  if 
it  could  hear  her.  Do  you  want  to  know  what 
she  said? " 

Gypsy  was  looking  very  hard  the  other  way. 
She  nodded,  but  did  not  speak,  gulping  down 
something  in  her  throat. 

"This  was  what  she  said — softly,  in  Joy's 
frightened  way,  you  know:  'You're  all  I  had 
anyway,'  said  she.  'All  the  other  girls  have 
got  mothers,  and  now  I  won't  ever  have  any, 
any  more.  I  did  used  to  bother  you  and  be 
cross  about  my  practising,  and  not  do  as  you 
told  me,  and  I  wish  I  hadn't,  and- 

3& 


"Oh — hum,  look  here — mother,"  interrupted 
Gypsy,  jumping  up  and  winking  very  fast, 
"isn't  there  a  train  up  from  Boston  early 
Monday  morning?  She  might  come  in  that, 
you  know." 

Mrs.  Breynton  smiled. 

"  Then  she  may  come,  may  she?  " 

"  I  rather  think  she  may,"  said  Gypsy,  with  an 
emphasis.    "  I'll  write  her  a  letter  and  tell  her  so." 

"  That  will  be  a  good  plan,  Gypsy.  But  you 
are  quite  sure?  I  don't  want  you  to  decide  this 
matter  in  too  much  of  a  hurry." 

"She'll  sleep  in  the  front  room,  of  course?  " 
suggested  Gypsy. 

"  No;  if  she  comes,  she  must  sleep  with  you. 
With  our  family  and  only  one  servant,  I  could 
hardly  keep  up  the  extra  work  that  would 
cause  for  six  months  or  a  year." 

"  Six  months  or  a  year!     In  my  room !  " 

Gypsy  walked  back  and  forth  across  the  room 
two  or  three  times,  her  merry  forehead  all 
wrinkled  into  a  knot. 

37 


"Well,"  at  last,  "  I've  said  it,  and  I'll  stick 
to  it,  and  I'll  try  to  make  her  have  a  good  time, 
anyway." 

"  Come  here,  Gypsy." 

Gypsy  came,  and  one  of  those  rare,  soft 
kisses — very  different  from  the  ordinary,  every- 
day kisses — that  her  mother  gave  her  when  she 
hadn't  just  the  words  to  say  how  pleased 
she  was,  fell  on  her  forehead,  and  smoothed 
out  the  knot  before  you  could  say  "  Jack 
Robinson." 

That  very  afternoon  Gypsy  wrote  her  note  to 

Joy: 

V  Dear  Joy: 

"I'm  real  sorry  your  mother  died.  You'd 
better  come  right  up  here  next  week,  and  we'll 
go  chestnutting  over  by  Mr.  Jonathan  Jones's. 
I  tell  you  it's  splendid  climbing  up.  If  you're 
very  careful,  you  needn't  tear  your  dress  very 
badly.  Then  there's  the  raft,  and  you  might 
play  baseball,  too.     I'll  teach  you. 


"You   see   if   you   don't  have   a  nice   time. 
I   can't    think    of   anything   more    to    say. 
"  Your   affectionate  cousin, 

"Gypsy." 


WAKEK: 


6t\£- 
•EY£JHm6 


O  it  was  settled, 
and  Joy  came. 
There  was  no  es- 
pecial day  ap- 
pointed for  the 
journey.  Her  father  was  to  come  up  with  her 
as  soon  as  he  had  arranged  his  affairs  so 
that  he  could  do  so,  and  then  to  go  directly 
back    to    Boston    and   sail    at   once. 

Gypsy  found  plenty  to  do,  in  getting  ready 
for    her    cousin.       This    having-    a    roommate 


for  the  first  time  in  her  life  was  by  no 
means  an  unimportant  event  to  her.  Her 
room  had  always  been  her  own  especial  pri- 
vate property.  Here  in  a  quiet  nook  on 
the  broad  window-sill  she  had  curled  her- 
self up  for  hours  with  her  new  story-books; 
here  she  had  locked  herself  in  to  learn  her 
lessons,  and  keep  her  doll's  dressmaking  out 
of  Winnie's  way ;  here  she  had  gone  away  alone 
to  have  all  her  "good  cries;"  here  she  some- 
times spent  a  part  of  her  Sabbath  evenings 
with  her  most  earnest  and  sober  thoughts. 

Here  was  the  mantel-shelf,  covered  with 
her  little  knick-knacks  that  no  one  was  ever 
allowed  to  touch  but  herself — pictures  framed 
in  pine  cones,  boxes  of  shell-work,  baskets  of 
wafer-work,  cologne-bottles,  watchcases,  ivy- 
shoots  and  minerals,  on  which  the  dust  ac- 
cumulated at  its  own  sweet  will,  and  the 
characteristic  variety  and  arrangement  whereof 
none  ever  disputed  with  her.  What  if  Joy 
should    bring   a    trunkful    of   ornaments  ? 


There   in    the   wardrobe   were  her  treasures 
covering   six    shelves— her    kites    and    balls    of 
twine,  fishlines  and  doll's  bonnets, 
scraps  of  gay  silk  and  jackknives, 
old     compositions   and    portfolios, 
colored    paper    and    dried    moss, 
pieces  of  chalk  and 
horse-  chestnuts, 
broken    jewelry 
and     marbles.       It 
was  a  curious  col- 
lection.    One 
would    sup- 
pose    it     to 
be    a   sort 

o  f      eo- 

f| 
partnership 

between  the  proper- 
ty of  a  boy  and  girl,   in  which 
the  boy  decidedly  predominated. 

Into    this    wardrobe    Gypsy    looked    regret- 
fully.    Three  of  those  shelves— those  precious 


shelves — must  be  Joy's  now.  And  what 
should  be   done   with    the    things  ? 

Then  there  were  the  bureau  drawers.  What 
sorcerer's  charms,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
somewhat  unwilling  fingers  of  a  not  very 
enthusiastic  little  girl,  could  cram  the  con- 
tents of  four  (and  those  so  full  that  they 
were  overflowing  through  the  cracks)  into 
two  ? 

Moreover,  as  any  one  acquainted  with  cer- 
tain chapters  in  Gypsy's  past  history  will  re- 
member, her  premises  were  not  always  cele- 
brated for  the  utmost  tidiness.  And  here 
was  Joy,  used  to  her  elegant  carpets  and 
marble-covered  bureaus,  and  gas-fixtures  and 
Cochituate,  with  servants  to  pick  up  her 
things  for  her  ever  since  she  was  a  baby! 
How  shocked  she  would  be  at  the  dust, 
and  the  ubiquitous  slippers,  and  the  slips 
and  shreds  on  the  carpet  ;  and  how  should 
she  have  the  least  idea  what  it  was  to  have 
to    do    things   yourself  ? 


However,  Gypsy  put  a  brave  face  on  it,  and 
emptied  the  bureau  drawers,  and  squeezed 
away  the  treasures  into  three  shelves,  and  did 
her  best  to  make  the  room  look  pleasant  and 
inviting  to  the  little  stranger.  In  fact,  before 
she  was  through  with  the  work  she  became 
really  very  much  interested  in  it.  She  had 
put  a  clean  white  quilt  upon  the  bed,  and 
looped  up  the  curtain  with  a  handsome  crimson 
ribbon,  taken  from  the  stock  in  the  wardrobe. 
She  had  swept  and  dusted  every  corner  and 
crevice;  she  had  displayed  all  her  ornaments 
to  the  best  advantage,  and  put  fresh  cologne 
in  the  bottles.  She  had  even  brought  from 
some  sanctum,  where  it  was  folded  away  in 
the  dark,  a  very  choice  silk  flag  about  four 
inches  long,  that  she  had  made  when  the  war 
began,  and  was  keeping  very  tenderly  to  wear 
when  Richmond  was  taken,  and  pinned  it 
up   over    her    looking-glass. 

On  the  table,  too,  stood  her  Parian  vase  filled 
with  golden    and   blood-red    maple-leaves,  and 


the  flaming  berries  of  the  burning-bush. 
Very  prettily  the  room  looked,  when  every- 
thing was  finished,  and  Gypsy  was  quite  proud 
of  it. 

Joy  came  Thursday  night.  They  were  all 
in  the  parlor  when  the  coach  stopped,  and 
Gypsy  ran  out  to  meet  her. 

A  pale,  sickly,  tired-looking  child,  draped 
from  head  to  foot  in  black,  came  up  the 
steps  clinging  to  her  father's  hand,  and  fret- 
ting over  something  or  other  about  the  bag- 
gage. 

Gypsy  was  springing  forward  to  meet  her, 
but  stopped  short.  The  last  time  she  had 
seen  Joy,  she  was  in  gay  Stuart-plaid  silk 
and  corals.  She  had  forgotten  all  about  the 
mourning.  How  thin  and  tall  it  made  Joy 
look! 

Gypsy  remembered  herself  in  a  minute  and 
threw  her  arms  warmly  around  Joy's  neck. 
But  Joy  did  not  return  the  embrace,  and 
gave  her   only     one    cold  kiss.       She   had   in- 

45 


ferred  from  Gypsy's  momentary  hesitation 
that   she    was   not   glad   to    see   her. 

Gypsy,  on  her  part,  thought  Joy  was  proud 
and  disagreeable.  Thus  the  two  girls  mis- 
understood each  other  at  the  the  very  be- 
ginning. 

"  I'm   real    glad    to    see  you,"  said    Gypsy. 

"I  thought  we  never  should  get  here!" 
said  Joy,  petulantly.  "  The  cars  were  so 
dusty,  and  your  coach  jolts  terribly.  I 
shouldn't  think  the  town  would  use  such  an 
old  thing." 

Gypsy's  •  face  fell,  and  her  welcome  grew 
faint. 

Joy  had  but  little  to  say  at  supper.  She 
sat  by  her  father  and  ate  her  muffins  like  a 
very  hungry,  tired  child — like  a  very  cross 
child,  Gypsy  thought.  Joy's  face  was  always 
pale  and  fretful;  in  the  bright  lamplight 
now,  after  the  exhaustion  of  the  long  journey, 
it  had  a  pinched,   unpleasant  look. 

"Hem,"  coughed  Tom,  over  his  teacup. 
46 


Gypsy  looked  up  and 
their  eyes  met.  That 
look  said  unutterable 
things. 

If  it  had  not  been  for 
Mrs.  Breynton,  that 
supper  would  have  been 
a  dismal  affair.  But 
she  had  such  a  cozy, 
comfortable  way  about 
her,  that  nobody  could 
help  being  cozy  and 
comfortable  if  they  tried 
hard  for  it.  After  a 
while,  when  Mr.  Breyn- 
ton and  his  brother  had  gone  away  into  the 
library  for  a  talk  by  themselves,  and  Joy  began 
to  feel  somewhat  rested,  she  brightened  up 
wonderfully,  and  became  really  quite  enter- 
taining in  her  account  of  her  journey  She 
thought  Vermont  looked  cold  and  stupid,  how- 
ever,   and    didn't    remember    having     noticed 


much  about  the  mountains,  for  which  Gypsy 
thought  she  should  never  forgive  her. 

But  there  was  at  least  one  thing  Gypsy 
found  out  that  evening  to  like  about  Joy. 
She  loved  her  father  dearly.  One  could  not 
help  noticing  how  restless  she  was  while  he 
was  out  of  the  room,  and  how  she  watched 
the  door  for  him  to  come  back;  how,  when 
he  did  come,  she  stole  away  from  her  aunt 
and  sat  down  by  him,  slipping  her  hand 
softly  into  his.  As  he  had  been  all  her  life 
the  most  indulgent  and  patient  of  fathers, 
and  was  going,  early  to-morrow  morning, 
thousands  of  miles  away  from  her  into  thou- 
sands of  unknown  dangers,  it  was  no  wonder. 

While  it  was  still  quite  early,  Joy  proposed 
going  to  bed.  She  was  tired,  and  besides. 
she  wanted  to  unpack  a  few  of  her  things. 
So  Gypsy  lighted  the  lamp  and  went  up  with 
her. 

"So  I  am  to  sleep  with  you,"  said  Joy,  as 
they  opened  the  door,  in  by  no  means  the 
48 


happiest  of  tones,  though  they  were  polite 
enough. 

"Yes.  Mother  thought  it  was  better. 
See,  isn't  my  room  pretty? "  said  Gypsy, 
eagerly,  thinking  how  pleased  Joy  would  be 
with  the  little  welcome  of  its  fresh  adorn- 
ments. 

"  Oh,  is  this  it?" 

Gypsy  stopped  short,  the  hot  color  rush- 
ing all  over  her  face. 

"Of  course,  it  isn't  like  yours.  We  can't 
afford  marble  bureaus  and  Brussels  carpets, 
but  I  thought  you'd  like  the  maple-leaves, 
and  I  brought  out  the  flag  on  purpose  be- 
cause you  were  coming." 

"  Flag!  Where?  Oh,  yes.  I  have  one  ten 
times  as  big  as  that  at  home,"  said  Joy,  and 
then  she  too  stopped  short,  for  she  saw  the 
expression  of  Gypsy's  face.  Astonished  and 
puzzled,  wondering  what  she  had  done,  Joy 
turned  away  to  unpack,  when  her  eye  fell 
on    the    vase     with     its   gorgeous  leaves    and 

49 


berries,  and  she  cried  out  in  real  delight: 
"O — oh,  how  pretty!  Why,  we  don't  have 
anything  like  this  in  Boston." 

But  Gypsy  was  only  half  comforted. 

Joy  unlocked  her  trunk  then,  and  for  a 
few  minutes  they  chatted  merrily  over  the 
unpacking.  Where  is  the  girl  that  doesn't 
like  to  look  at  pretty  clothes  ?  and  where 
is  the  girl  that  doesn't  like  to  show  them 
if  they  happen  to  be  her  own?  Joy's  linen 
was  all  of  the  prettiest  pattern,  with  won- 
derful trimmings  and  embroideries  such  as 
Gypsy  had  seldom  seen :  her  collars  and 
undersleeves  were  of  the  latest  fashion,  and 
fluted  with  choice  laces;  her  tiny  slippers 
were  tufted  with  velvet  bows,  and  of  her 
nets  and  hair-ribbons  there  was  no  end. 
Gypsy  looked  on  without  a  single  pang  of 
envy,  contrasting  them  with  her  own  plain, 
neat  things,  of  course,  but  glad,  in  Gypsy's 
own  generous  fashion,  that  Joy  had  them. 

"  I  had  pretty  enough  things  when  you 
5° 


were  in  Boston,"  said  Joy,  unfolding  her 
heavy  black  dresses  with  their  plain  folds  of 
bombazine  and  crape.  "  Now  I  can't  wear 
anything  but  this  ugly  black.  Then  there 
are  all  my  corals  and  malachites  just  good 
for  nothing.  Madame  St.  Denis  —  she's  the 
dressmaker  —  said  I  couldn't  wear  a  single 
thing  but  jet,  and  jet  makes  me  look  dread- 
fully   brown." 

Gypsy  hung  up  the  dress  that  was  in  her 
hand  and  walked  over  to  the  window.  She 
felt  very  much  as  if  somebody  had  been 
drawing  a    file    across    her    front    teeth. 

She  could  not  have  explained  what  was 
the  matter.  Somehow  she  seemed  to  see  a 
quick  picture  of  her  own  mother  dying  and 
dead,  and  herself  in  the  sad,  dark  dresses. 
And  how  Joy  could  speak  so — how  she  could  ! 

"Oh  —  only  two  bureau  drawers!  Why 
didn't  you  give  me  the  two  upper  ones  ? " 
said  Joy,  presently,  when  she  was  ready  to 
put    away   her    collais   and  boxes. 


"  Because  my  things  were  in  there,"  said 
Gypsy. 

"  But  your  things  were  in  the  lower  ones 
just    as   much." 

"  I  like  the  upper  drawers  best,"  said 
Gypsy,    shortly. 

"  So    do    I,"    retorted    Joy. 

The  hot  color  rushed  over  Gpysy's  face 
for  the  second  time,  but  now  it  was  a  some- 
what angry  color. 

"  It  wasn't  very  pleasant  to  have  to  give 
up  any,  and  there  are  all  those  wardrobe 
shelves  I '  had  to  take  my  things  off  from 
too,  and  I  don't  think  you've  any  right  to 
make    a   fuss." 

"That's  polite!"  said  Joy,  with  a  laugh. 
Gypsy  knew  it  wasn't,  but  for  that  very 
reason    she    wouldn't   say    so. 

One  more  subject  of  dispute  came  up 
almost  before  this  was  forgotten.  When  they 
were  all  ready  to  go  to  bed,  Joy  wanted 
the   front    side. 

52 


"  But  that's  where  I  always  sleep,"  said 
Gypsy. 

"There  isn't  any  air  over  the  back  side, 
and    I    can't   breathe,"    said    Joy. 

"Neither   can    I,"    said    Gypsy. 

"  I  never  can  get  to  sleep  if  I  don't 
have   the   place    I'm    used    to,"    said  Joy. 

"  You  can  just  as  well  as  I  can,"  said 
Gypsy.      "  Besides,    it's  my    bed." 

This  last  argument  appeared  to  be  unan- 
swerable,   and   Gypsy  had   it  her  way. 

She  thought  it  over  before  she  went  to 
sleep,  which  was  not  very  soon;  for  Joy 
was  restless,  and  tossed  on  her  pillow,  and 
talked  in  her  dreams.  Of  course  the  front 
side  and  the  upper  drawers  belonged  to 
her — yes,  of  course.  She  had  only  taken 
her  rights.  She  would  be  obliged  to  any- 
body  to   show    her   where    she  was  to  blame. 

Joy  went  to  sleep  without  any  thoughts, 
and   therein   lay   just   the    difference. 


OMETHING  woke  Gypsy 
very   early    the    next 
morning.      She    started 
up,    and  saw   Joy  stand- 
ing by    the    bed,    in    the    faint,  gray    light,  all 
dressed  and  shivering  with  the  cold. 
"Well,  I  never!  "  said  Gypsy. 
"What's  the  matter?  " 

"What  on  earth,  have  you  got  your  dress  on 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  for?  " 
"  It  isn't  night;  it's  morning." 
"  Morning!  it  isn't  any  such  a  thing." 
" 'Tis,   too.      I    heard    the    clock    strike   ftve 
ever  so  long  ago." 


Gypsy  had  fallen  back  on  the  pillow,  almost 
asleep  again.  She  roused  herself  with  a  little 
jump. 

"  See  here  /" 

"Ow!    how   you  frightened  me,"   sa"  \    Joy, 


fm 


%> 


'■'V, 


■JmMWAWk 


with  another  jump. 

"Did  I?    Oh,  well"— 
silence.       "I   don't    see"  —  another  si 
lence — "what  you   wear  my  rubber  —  rubber 
boots  for." 

"Your    rubber      boots!        Gypsy    Breynton, 
you're  sound  asleep." 


"  Asleep!"  said  Gypsy,  sitting  up  with  a 
jerk,  and  rubbing  both  fists  into  her  eyes. 
"I'm  just  as  wide  awake  as  you  are.  Oh, 
why,  you're  dressed !  " 

"  Ju"  t  found  that  out?"  Joy  broke  into  a 
laugh,  and  Gypsy,  now  quite  awake,  joined  in 
it  merrily.  For  the  first  time  a  vague  notion 
came  to  her  that  she  was  rather  glad  Joy 
came.  It  might  be  some  fun,  after  all,  to 
have  somebody  round  all  the  time  to  —  in 
that  untranslatable  girls'  phrase — "carry  on 
with." 

"  But  I  don't  see  what's  up,"  said  Gypsy, 
winking  and  blinking  like  an  owl  to  keep 
her  eyes  open. 

"  Why,  I  was  afraid  father' d  get  off  before 
I  was  awake,  so  I  was  determined  he  shouldn't. 
I  guess  I  kept  waking  up  pretty  much  all 
night  to  see  if  it  wasn't  time." 

"  I  wish  he  didn't  have  to  go,"  said  Gypsy. 
She  felt  sorry  for  Joy  just  then,  seeing  this 
best  side  of  her  that  she  liked.     For  about    a 

S6 


minute  she  wished  she 
had  let  her  have  the  up- 
per drawer. 

Joy's  father 
started  by  a  very 
early  train,  and  it 
was  still  hardly 
light  when  he  sat 
down  to  his  hurried 
breakfast,  with  Joy 
close  by  him,  that 
pale,  pinched  look 
on  her  face,  and  so 
utterly  silent  that 
Gypsy  wras  astonished.  She  would  have  thought 
she .  cared  nothing  about  her  father's  going, 
if  she  had  not  seen  her  standing  in  the  gray 
light  up-stairs. 

"  Joyce,     my    child,     you    haven't    eaten   a 
mouthful,"    said   her   father. 
"  I    can't." 
"Come,  dear,  do,  just  a  little,  to  please  father." 

S7 


Joy  put  a  spoonful  of  tea  to  her  lips, 
and  put  it  down.  Presently  there  was  a 
great  rumbling  of  wheels  outside,  and  the 
coachman    rang   the    door-bell. 

"Well,  joy." 

Joy  stood  up,  but  did  not  speak.  Her 
father,  holding  her  close  in  his  arms,  drew 
her  out  with  him  into  the  entry.  Mrs. 
Breynton  turned  away;  so  did  Gypsy  and 
the  rest.  In  a  minute  they  heard  Joy  go 
into  the  parlor  and  shut  the  door,  and  then 
her  father  called  out  to  them  with  his 
cheerful  good-byes,  and  then  he  was  in  the 
coach,    and   the    door   was   shut. 

Gypsy  stole  into  the  parlor.  Joy  was  stand- 
ing there  alone  by  the  window. 

"Why  don't  you  cry?"  said  Gypsy;  "I 
would." 

*'  I  don't  want  to,"   said  Joy,  moving  away. 

Her  sorrow  at  parting  with  her  father  made 

her  fretful  that  morning.     This  was  Joy's  way. 

She  had  inherited  her  mother's  fashion  of  tak- 

58 


ing  trouble.  Gypsy  did  not  understand  it,  and 
her  sympathy  cooled  a  little.  Still  she  really 
wanted  to  do  something  to  make  her  happy,  and 
so  she  set  about  it  in  the  only  ways  she  knew. 

"See  here,  Joy,"  she  called,  merrily,  after 
breakfast,  "let's  come  out  and  have  a  good 
time.  I  have  lots  and  lots  to  show  you  out  in 
the  barn  and  round.  Then  there  is  all  York- 
bury  besides,  and  the  mountains.  Which'll 
you  do  first,  see  the  chickens  or  walk  out  on 
the  ridge-pole? " 

"  On  the  what  ?  " 

"On  the  ridge-pole;  that's  the  top  of  the 
roof,  you  know,  over  the  kitchen.  Tom  and  I 
go  out  there  ever  so  much." 

"Oh,  I'd  rather  see  the  chickens.  I  should 
think  you'd  kill  yourself  walking  on  roofs. 
Wait  till  I  get  my  gloves." 

"Oh,  you  don't  want  gloves  in  Yorkbury" 
said  Gypsy,  with  a  very  superior  air.  "  That's 
nothing  but  a  Boston  fashion.  Slip  on  your 
hat  and  sack  in  a  jiff,  and  come  along." 

55 


"I  shall  tan  my  hands,"  said  Joy.  reluc- 
tantly, as  they  went  out.  "  Besides,  I  don't 
know  what  a  jiff  is." 

"A  jiff  is — why,  it's  short  for   jiffy,  I    sup 
pose." 

"  But  what's  a  jiffy?  "  persisted  Joy. 

"Couldn't  tell  you,"  said  Gypsy,  with  a 
bubbling  laugh;  "I  guess  it's  something  that's 
in  a  terrible  hurry.  Tom  says  it  ever  so 
much." 

"I  shouldn't  think  your  mother  would  let 
you  use  boys'  talk,"  said  Joy.  Gypsy  some- 
times stood  in  need  of  some  such  hint  as  this, 
but  she  did  not  relish  it  from  Joy.  By  way  of 
reply  she  climbed  up  the  post  of  the  clothes- 
line. 

Joy  thought  the  chickens  were  pretty,  but 
they  had  such  long  legs,  and  such  a  silly  way 
of  squealing  when  you  took  them  up,  as  if  you 
were  going  to  murder  them.  Besides  she  was 
afraid  she  should  step  on  them.  So  they  went 
into  the   barn,  and   Gypsy  exhibited   Billy  and 


Bess  and  Clover  with  the  talent  of  a  Barnum 
and  the  pride  of  a  queen.  Billy  was  the  old 
horse  who  had  pulled  the  family  to  church 
through  the  sand  every  Sunday  since  the 
children  were  babies,  and  Bess  and  Clover 
were  white-starred,  gentle-eyed  cows,  who  let 
Gypsy  pull  their  horns  and  tickle  them  with 
hay,  and  make  pencil-marks  on  their  white 
foreheads  to  her  heart's  content,  and  looked 
at  Joy's  strange  face  with  great  musing  beau- 
tiful brown  eyes.  But  Joy  was  afraid  they 
would  hook  her,  and  she  didn't  like  to  be  in 
a  barn. 

''What!  not  tumble  on  the  hay!"  cried 
Gypsy,  half  way  up  the  ladder  into  the  loft. 
"  Just  see  what  a  quantity  there  is  of  it.  Did 
you  ever  know  such  a  quantity?  Father  lets 
me  jump  on  it  'cause  I  don't  hurt  the  hay — 
very  much.". 

No.  Joy  couldn't  possibly  climb  up  the 
ladder.  Well,  Gypsy  would  help  her  then. 
By  a  little  maneuvering  she  persuaded  Joy  to 


step  up  three  rounds,  and  she  herself  stood 
behind  her  and  began  to  walk  up.  Joy 
screamed  and  stood  still. 

"Go  ahead;  you  can't  stop  now.  I'll  keep 
hold  of  you,"  said  Gypsy,  choking  with  laugh- 
ter, and  walking  on.  There  was  nothing  for 
Joy  to  do  but  climb,  unless  she  chose  to  be 
walked  over,  so  up  they  went,  she  screaming 
and  Gypsy  pushing  all  the  way. 

"  Now  all  you  have  to  do  is  just  to  get  up  on 
the  beams  and  jump  off,"  said  Gypsy,  up  there, 
and  peering  down  from  among  the  cobwebs, 
and  flying  through  the  air,  almost  before  the 
words  were  off  from  her  lips.  But  Joy 
wouldn't  hear  of  getting  into  such  a  dusty 
place.  She  took  two  or  three  dainty  little  rolls 
on  the  hay,  but  the  dried  clover  got  into  her 
hair  and  mouth  and  eyes,  and  she  was  per- 
fectly sure  there  was  a  spider  down  her  neck ; 
so  Gypsy  was  glad  at  last  to  get  her  safely 
down  the  ladder  and  out  doors. 

After    that    they    tried     the    raft.     Gypsy's 


raft  was  on  a  swamp  below  the  orchard, 
and  it  was  one  of  her  favorite  amusements 
to  push  herself  about  over  the  shallow  water. 
But  Joy  was  afraid  of  wetting  her  feet,  or 
getting  drowned,  or  something  —  she  didn't 
exactly   know    what,    so  they  gave  that  up. 

Then  Gypsy  proposed  a  game  of  marbles 
on  the  garden  path.  She  played  a  great 
deal  with  Tom,  and  played  well.  But  Joy 
was  shocked  at  the  idea.  That  was  a  boy's 
play ! 

"What  will  you  do,  then?"  said  Gypsy, 
a  little  crossly.  Joy  replied  in  the  tone  of 
a  martyr,  that  she  was  sure  she  did  not 
know.  Gypsy  coughed,  and  walked  up  and 
down  on  the  garden  fence  in  significant 
silence. 

Joy  was  not  to  go  to  school  till  Monday. 
Meantime  she  amused  herself  at  home  with 
her  aunt,  and  Gypsy  went  as  usual  without 
her. 

Saturday    afternoon  was  the  perfect  pattern 

63 


of  an  autumn  afternoon.  A  creamy  haze 
softened  the  sharp  outline  of  the  mountains, 
and  lay  cloudlike  on  the  fields.  The  sun- 
light fell  through  it  like  sifted  gold,  the 
sky  hung  motionless  and  blue — that  glow- 
less,  deepening  blue  that  always  made  Gypsy 
feel,  she  said,  "as  if  she  must  drink  it 
right  up " — and  away  over  miles  of  field 
and  mountain  slope  the  maples  crimsoned 
and   flamed. 

Gypsy  came  home  at  noon  with  her  hat 
hanging  down  her  neck,  her  cheeks  on  fire, 
and  panting  like  the  old  lady  who  died  for 
want  of  breath;  rushing  up  the  steps,  tear- 
ing open  the  door,  and  slamming  into  the 
parlor. 

"Look  here! — everybody — where  are  you? 
What  do  you  think?  Joy!  Mother!  There's 
going  to  be  a   great    chestnutting. " 

"A  what?"  asked  Joy,  dropping  her  em- 
broidery. 

"  A  chestnutting,  up  at  Mr.  Jonathan 
64 


Jones's  trees,  this  afternoon  at  two  o'clock. 
Did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  perfectly 
mag?" — mag   being  "Gypsy"  for  magnificent. 

"Who  are  to  make  the  party?"  asked  her 
mother. 

"Oh,  I  and  Sarah  Rowe  and  Delia  Guest 
and — and  Sarah  Rowe  and  I,"  said  Gypsy, 
talking  very  fast. 

"  And    Joy,"  said  Mrs.   Breynton,  gently. 

"Joy,  of  course.  That's  what  I  came  in 
to    say." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  to  go  if  you  don't 
want   me,"    said    Joy,    with     a    slighted    look. 

"But  I  do  want  you.     Who  said  I  didn't?" 

"  Well,"  said  Joy,  somewhat  mollified,  "  I'll 
go   if   there    aren't  any    spiders." 

The  two  girls  equipped  themselves  with 
tin  pails,  thick  boots  and  a  lunch-basket, 
and  started  off  in  high  spirits  at  precisely 
half-past  one.  Joy  had  a  remarkably  vague 
idea  of  what  she  was  going  to  do.  but  she 
felt   unusually     good-natured,     as    who    could 

6s 


help   feeling-,   with    such   a   sunlight   as    that 
and  such    distant    glories    of   the    maple-trees,, 
and     such     shadows    melting    on     the    moun- 
tains ! 

"I  want  to  go  chestnotting,  too-o-o!" 
called  Winnie,    disconsolate,    in    the    doorway. 

"No,  Winnie,  you  couldn't,  possibly,"  said 
Gypsy,  pleasantly,  sorry  to  disappoint  him ; 
but  she  was  quite  too  well  acquainted  with 
Winnie  to  undertake  a  nutting  party  in  his 
company. 

"Oh,  yes,  do  let's  take  him;  he's  so  cun- 
ning," said  Joy.  Joy  was  totally  unused  to 
children,  having  never  had  brothers  and 
sisters  of  her  own,  and  since  she  had  been 
there,  Winnie  had  not  happened  to  develop 
in  any  of  his  characteristic  methods.  More- 
over, he  had  speedily  discovered  that  Joy 
laughed  at  everything  he  said;  even  his  most 
ordinary  efforts  in  the  line  of  wit;  and  that 
she  gave  him  lumps  of  sugar  when  she 
thought    of   it;    and    therefore    he    had    been 


on     his     best    behavior     whenever     she     was 
about. 

"  He's  so  terribly  cunning,"  repeated  Joy; 
"  I    guess  he   won't  do    any   hurt." 

"  I  won't  do  any  hurt,"  put  in  Winnie; 
"I'm    real  cunnin',  Gypsy." 

"  You  may  do  as  you  like,  of  course," 
said  Gypsy.  "  I  know  he  will  make  trouble 
and  spoil  all  the  party,  and  the  girls  would 
scold  me  'cause  I  brought  him.  I've  tried 
it  times  enough.  If  you're  a  mind  to  take 
care  of  him,  I  suppose  you  can;  but  you  see 
if   you  don't    repent   your   bargain." 

Gypsy  was  perfectly  right  ;  she  was  not 
apt  to  be  selfish  in  her  treatment  of  Win- 
nie. Such  a  tramp  as  this  was  not  at  all 
suited  to  his  capacities  of  feet  or  temper, 
and  if  his  mother  had  been  there  she  would 
have  managed  to  make  him  happy  in  stay- 
ing home.  But  Winnie  had  received  quite 
too  much  encouragement;  he  had  no  thought 
of  giving  up  his  bargain  now. 
67 


"  Gypsy  Breynton,  you  just  needn't  talk. 
I'm  goin'  chestnotting.  I'm  five  years  old. 
I'm  goin'  with  cousin  Joy,  and  I'll  eat  just 
as  many  chestnots  as  you  or  anybody  else, 
now! " 

Gypsy  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  that, 
and    the    three    started  off   together. 

They  met  Sarah  Rowe  and  Delia  on  the 
way,    and    Gypsy   introduced   them. 

"This  is  my  cousin  Joy,  and  this  is 
Sarah.  That  one  in  the  shaker  bonnet  is 
Delia  Guest.  Oh,  I  forgot.  Joy's  last  name 
is    Breynton,    and   Sarah    is    Sarah    Rowe." 

Joy  bowed  in  her  prim,  cityish  way,  and 
Sarah  and  Delia  were  so  much  astonished 
thereat  that  they  forgot  to  bow  at  all,  and 
Delia  stared  rudely  at  her  black  dress. 
There    was   an    awkward    silence. 

"Why  don't  you  talk,  somebody?"  broke 
out  Gypsy,  getting  desperate.  "  Anybody'd 
think  we  were  three    mummies  in  a  museum." 

"I    don't    think    you're    very   perlite,"    put 


in  Winnie,  with  a  virtuous  frown;  "if  you 
don't  let  me  be  a  dummy,  too,  I'll  tell 
mother,    and    that    would    make    four." 

This  broke  the  ice,  and  Sarah  and  Delia 
began  to  talk  very  fast  about  Monday's 
grammar  lesson,  and  Miss  Cardrew,  and  how 
Agnes  Gaylord  put  a  green  snake  in  Phoebe 
Hunt's  lunch-basket,  and  had  to  stay  after 
school  for  it,  and  how  it  was  confidently  re- 
ported in  mysterious  whispers,  at  recess,  that 
George  Castles  told  Mr.  Guernsey  he  was  a 
regular  old  fogy,  and  Mr.  Guernsey  had  sent 
home  a  letter  to  his  father — not  Mr.  Guern- 
sey's father,  but  George's;  he  had  now,  true's 
you    live. 

Now,  to  Joy,  of  course,  n^ne  of  this  was 
very  interesting,  for  she  had  not  been  into 
the  schoolroom  yet,  and  didn't  know  George 
Castles  and  Agnes  Gaylord  from  Adam ;  and 
somehow  or  other  it  never  occurred  to  Gypsy 
to  introduce  some  subject  in  which  they  could 
all, take  part;  and  so  somehow  it   came  about 

6q 


that  Joy  fell  behind  with  Winnie,  and  the 
three  girls  went  on  together  all  the  way  to 
Mr.    Jones's   grove. 

"Isn't  it  splendid?"  called  Gypsy,  turn- 
ing  around.      "  I'm  having  a  real  nice  time." 

"Ye — es,"  said  Joy,  dolefully;  "I  guess  I 
shall  like  it  better  when  we  get  to  the 
chestnuts." 

Nothing  particular  happened  on  the  way, 
except  that  when  they  were  crossing  Mr. 
Jonathan's  plowed  field,  Winnie  stuck  in 
the  mud  tight,  and  when  he  was  pulled  out 
he  left  his  shoes  behind  him;  that  he  re- 
peated this  pleasing  little  incident  six  con- 
secutive times  within  five  minutes,  varying 
it  by  lifting  up  his  voice  to  weep,  in  Winnie's 
own  accomplished  style;  and  that  Joy  ended 
by  carrying  him   in  her  arms  the  whole  way. 

Be  it  here  recorded  that  Joy's  ideal  of 
"cherubic  childhood,"  Winnie  standing  as 
representative  cherub,  underwent  then  and 
there    several    modifications. 


"Here  we  are!"  cried  Gypsy  at  last,  clear- 
ing a  low  fence  with  a  bound.  "  Just  see 
the    leaves    and   the    sky.     Isn't   it  just — oh ! " 

It  was,  indeed  "just,"  and  there  it  stopped; 
there  didn't  seem  to  be  any  more  words  to 
say  about  it.  The  chestnut-trees  were  clus- 
tered on  a  small,  rocky  knoll,  their  golden- 
brown  leaves  fluttering  in  the  sunlight,  their 
great,  rich,  bursting  green  burs  bending  down 
the  boughs  and  dropping  to  the  ground. 
Around  them  and  among  them  a  belt  of 
maples  stood  up  like  blazing  torches  sharp 
against  the  sky  —  yellow,  scarlet,  russet, 
maroon,  and  crimson  veined  with  blood,  all 
netted  and  laced  together,  and  floating  down 
upon  the  wind  like  shattered  jewels.  Beyond, 
the  purple  mountains,  and  the  creamy  haze, 
md   the    silent   sky. 

It  was  a  sight  to  make  younger  and  older 
than  these  four  girls  stand  still  with  deepen- 
ing eyes.  For  about  a  half  minute  nobody 
spoke,    and    I    venture    to    say    the    four    dif- 


ferent  kinds  of  thoughts  they  had  just  then 
would    make    a   pretty    bit    of   a   poem. 

Whatever  they  were,  a  fearfully  unroman- 
tic  and  utterly  indescribable  howl  from  Win- 
nie   put    an    unceremonious   end    to    them. 

"O-oh!  ugh!  ah!  Gypsy!  Joy!  I've  got 
catched  onto  my  buttons.  My  head's  tippin' 
over  the  wrong  way.     Boo-hoo-hoo !    Gypsy !  " 

The  girls  turned,  and  stood  transfixed,  and 
screamed  till  they  lost  their  breath,  and  laughed 
till  they  cried. 

Winnie,  not  being  of  a  sentimental  turn 
of  mind,  had  regarded  unmoved  the  flaming 
glories  of  the  maple-leaves,  and  being  in- 
fluenced by  the  more  earthly  attractions  of 
the  chestnuts,  had  conceived  the  idea  of 
seizing  advantage  of  the  girls'  unpractical 
rapture  to  be  the  first  on  the  field,  and  take 
entire  and  lawful  possession  thereof.  There- 
fore had  he  made  all  manner  of  haste  to 
crawl  through  the  fence,  and  there  had  he 
stuck    fast    between    two    bars,    balanced    like 


a  see-saw,  his  head  going  up  and  his  feet 
going  down,  his  feet  going  up  and  his  head 
going   down. 

Gypsy  pulled  him  out  as  well  as  she  could 
between   her   spasms   of   laughter. 

"I  don't  see  any  thin'  to  laugh  at,"  said 
Winnie,  severely.  "  If  you  don't  stop  laughin' 
I'll  go  way  off  into  the  woods  and  be  a 
Injun  and  never  come  home  any  more,  and 
build  me  a  house  with  a  chimney  to  it,  'n' 
have  baked  beans  for  supper  'n'  lots  of  chest- 
nots,  and  a  gun  and  a  pistol,  and  I  won't 
give  yon   any!     Goin'   to    stop   laughin'?" 

It  did  not  take  long  to  pick  up  the  nuts 
that  the  wind  and  the  frost  had  already 
strewn  upon  the  ground,  and  everybody 
enjoyed  it  but  Joy.  She  pricked  her  unaccus- 
tomed fingers  on  the  sharp  burs,  and  didn't 
like  the  nuts  when  she  had  tasted  of   them. 

"  They're  not  the  kind  of  chestnuts  we 
have  in  Boston,"  she  said;  "ours  are  soft 
like  potatoes." 


"Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  she  thought  they  grew 
boiled ! "  and  there  was  a  great  laugh.  Joy 
colored,  and  did  not  relish  it  very  much. 
Gypsy  was  too  busy  pulling  oft  her  burs  to 
notice  this.  Presently  the  ground  was  quite 
cleared. 

"  Now  we  must  climb,"  said  Gypsy.  Gypsy 
was  always  the  leader  in  their  plays;  always 
made  all  their  plans.  Sarah  Rowe  was  her 
particular  friend,  and  thought  everything 
Gypsy  did  about  right,  and  seldom  opposed 
her.     Delia   never   opposed    anybody. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  climb,"  said 
Joy,    shrinking   and    shocked. 

"But  I'll  show  you.  This  isn't  anything; 
these  branches  are  just  as  low  as  they  can 
be.  Here,  I'll  go  first  and  help  you,  and 
Sarah    can    come    next." 

So  up  went  Gypsy,  nimble  as  a  squirrel, 
over  the  low-hanging  boughs  that  swayed 
with    her    weight. 

"Come,    Joy!    I    can't    wait." 


Joy  trembled  and  screamed,  and  came. 
She  crawled  a  little  ways  up  the  lowest  of 
the  branches,  and  stopped,  frightened  by  the 
motion. 

"  Catch  hold  of  the  upper  bough  and  stand 
up;  then  you  can  walk  it,"  called  Gypsy, 
half  out  of  sight  now  among  the  thick 
leaves. 

Joy  did  as  she  was  told — her  feet  slipped, 
the  lower  branch  swung  away  from  under 
her,  and  there  she  hung  by  both  hands  in 
mid-air.  She  was  not  more  than  four  feet 
from  the  ground,  and  could  have  jumped 
down  without  the  slightest  difficulty,  but 
that  she  was  altogether  too  frightened  to 
do  So  she  swung  back  and  forth  like  a 
lantern,  screaming  as  loud  as  she  could 
scream. 

Gypsy  was  peculiarly  sensitive  to  anything 
funny,  and  she  quite  forgot  that  Joy  was 
really  frightened;  indeed,  used  as  she  was 
to    the    science    of   tree-climbing   all    her   life, 


that  a  girl  could  hang  within  four  feet  of 
the  ground,  and  not  know  enough  to  jump, 
seemed   to   her   perfectly    incomprehensible. 

"Jump,  Joy,  jump!"  she  called,  between 
her   shouts    of   laughter. 

"No,  no,  don't,  you  might  break  your 
arm,"  cried  Delia  Guest,  who  hadn't  the 
slightest  scruple  about  telling  a  falsehood  if 
she  were  going  to  have  something  to  laugh 
at  by  the  means.  Poor  Joy  was  between 
Scylla  and  Charybdis.  (If  you  don't  know 
what  that  means,  go  and  ask  your  big 
brothers;  make  them  leave  their  chess  and 
their  newspapers  on  the  spot,  and  read  you 
what  Mr.  Virgil  has  to  say  about  it.)  If 
she  hung  on  she  would  wrench  her  arms; 
if  she  jumped,  she  should  break  them.  She 
hung,  screaming,  as  long  as  she  could,  and 
dropped  when  she  could  hang  no  longer, 
looking  about  in  an  astonishment  that  was 
irresistibly     funny,     at     finding    herself    alive 

and    unhurt    on    the    soft    moss. 

76 


The  girls  were  still  laughing  too  hard  to 
talk.  Joy  stood  up  with  a  very  red  face 
and  began  to  walk  slowly  away  without  a 
word. 

"Where  are  you  goin? "  called  Gypsy 
from    the   branches. 

"Home,"    said    Joy. 

"Oh,  don't;  come,  we  won't  laugh  any 
more.  Come  back,  and  you  needn't  climb. 
You  can  stay  underneath  and  pick  up  while 
we    throw    down." 

"No;  I've  had  enough  of  it.  I  don't  bke 
chestnutting,  and  I  don't  like  to  be  laughed 
at,    either.     I    shan't    stay    any   longer." 

"I'm  real  sorry,"  said  Gypsy.  "I  couldn't 
help  laughing  at  you,  you  did  look  so  ter- 
ribly funny.  Oh,  dear,  you  ought  to  have 
seen  yourself!  I  wish  you  wouldn't  go.  If 
you  do,  you  can  find  the  way  alone,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  I    suppose    so,"    said   Joy,    doubtfully, 

"Well,     you'd     better     take     Winnie;     you 


know  you  brought  him,  and  I  can't  keep 
him  here.  It  would  spoil  everything.  Why, 
where    is    the    child?" 

He    was   nowhere    to   be    seen. 

"Winnie!     Win — nie!" 

There  was  a  great  splash  somewhere,  and 
a  curious  bubbling  sound,  but  where  it  came 
from  nobody  could  tell.  All  at  once  Delia 
broke  into  something  between  a  laugh  and 
a   scream. 

"O — oh,  I  see!  Look  there — down  in  that 
ditch    beyond    the    elder-bushes — quick!" 

Rising  up  into  the  air  out  of  the  muddy 
ground,  without  any  visible  support  what- 
ever, were  a  pair  of  feet — Winnie's  feet, 
unmistakably,  because  of  their  copper  toes 
and  tagless  shoestrings — and  kicking  fran- 
tically back  and  forth.  "Only  that  and 
nothing   more." 

"  Why,  where's  the — rest  of  him?"  said  Joy, 
blankly.     At    this   instant    Gypsy   darted   past 

her   with  a  sudden  movement   flew  down  the 

78 


knoll,  and  began  to  pull  at  the  mysterious 
feet   as   if   for   dear   life. 

"Why,  what  is  she  doing?"  cried  all  the 
girls  in  a  breath.  As  they  spoke,  up  came 
Winnie  entire  into  the  air,  head  down,  drip- 
ping, drenched,  black  with  mud,  gasping, 
nearly   drowned. 

Gypsy  shook  him  and  pounded  him  on 
the  back  till  his  breath  came,  and  when 
she  found  there  was  no  harm  done,  she 
set  him  down  on  a  stone,  wiped  the  mud 
off  from  his  face,  and  threw  herself  down 
on  the  grass  as  if  she  couldn't  stand  up 
another   minute. 

"Crying?  Why,  no;  she's  laughing.  Did 
you  ever? " 

And  down  ran  the  girls  to  see  what  was 
the  matter.  At  the  foot  of  the  knoll  was 
a  ditch  of  black  mud.  In  the  middle  of 
this  ditch  was  a  round  hole  two  feet  deep, 
which  had  been  dug  at  some  time  to  col- 
lect  water    for    the   cattle     pasturing    in    the 


field  to  drink.  Into  this  hole,  Winnie,  in 
the  course  of  some  scientific  investigations 
as  to  the  depth  of  the  water,  had  fallen, 
unfortunately,  the  wrong  end  foremost,  and 
there  he  certainly  would  have  drowned  if 
Gypsy   had   not    seen  him    just  when  she  did. 

But  he  was  not  drowned;  on  the  contrary, 
except  for  the  mud,  "as  good  as  new;" 
and  what  might  have  been  a  tragedy,  and 
a  very  sad  one,  had  become,  as  Gypsy 
said,  "too  funny  for  anything."  Winnie, 
however,  "didn't  see  it,"  and  began  to  cry 
lustily   to   go  home. 

"It's  fortunate  you  were  just  going,"  said 
Gypsy.  "I'll  just  fill  my  pail,  and  then  I'll 
come  along  and  very  likely  overtake  you." 

Probably  Joy  didn't  fancy  this  arrangement 

any  too  well,  but  she  remembered  that  it  was 

her  own  plan  to  take  the  child;  therefore  she 

said  nothing,   and  she  and  W'nnie  started  off 

forlornly  enough. 

About  five  o'clock  Gypsy  walked  slowly  up 
80 


the  yard  with  her  pail  full  of  nuts,  her  hat 
in  her  hand,  and  a  gay  wreath  of  maple-leaves 
on  her  head.  With  her  bright  cheeks  and 
twinkling  eyes,  and  the  broad  leaves  casting 
'heir  gorgeous  shadows  of  crimson  and  gold 
upon  her  forehead,  she  made  a  pretty  picture 
— almost  too  pretty  to  scold. 

Tom  met  her  at  the  door.  Tom  was  very 
proud  of  Gypsy,  and  you  could  see  in  his 
eyes  just  then  what  he  thought  of  her. 

"What  a  little "  he  began,  all  ready  for 

a  frolic,  and  stopped,  and  grew  suddenly 
grave. 

"Where  are  Joy  and  Winnie?" 

"Haven't  they  come?" 

"No." 


^SB&Zfc* 


DjSCOVE^hV^ 


YPSY    turned  very    pale. 

"Where     are     they?"    persisted 

Tom.     And  just    then   her    mother 

came    out    from    the  parlor. 

"Why,   Gypsy,    where    are    the    children?" 

"I'm  afraid  Joy  didn't  know  the   way,"  said 

Gypsy,   slowly. 

"Did  you  let  her  come  home  alone?" 

"  Yes'm.      She    was    tired   of   the  chestnuts, 

and  Winnie  fell  into   the  ditch.     Oh,  mother !  " 

Mrs.   Breynton  did  not   say  one  word.     She 

began    to   put   on    her    things    very    fast,  and 


Tom  hurried  up  to  the  store  for  his  father. 
They  hunted  everywhere,  through  the  fields 
and  in  the  village;  they  inquired  of  every 
shop-keeper  and  every  passer,  but  no  one 
had  seen  a  girl  in  black,  with  a  little  boy. 
There  were  plenty  of  girls  and  an  abun- 
dance of  little  boys  to  be  found  at  a  great 
variety  of  places,  but  most  of  the  girls  wore 
green-checked  dresses,  and  the  boys  were  in 
ragged  jackets.  Gypsy  retraced  every  step 
of  the  way^  carefully  from  the  roadside  to 
the  chestnut-trees.  Mr.  Jonathan  Jones,  de- 
lighted that  he  had  actually  caught  somebody 
on  his  plowed  land,  came  running  down 
with  a  terrible  scolding  on  his  lips.  But 
when  he  saw  Gypsy's  utterly  wretched  face 
and  heard  her  story,  he  helped  her  instead 
to  search  the  chestnut  grove  and  the  sur- 
rounding fields  all  over.  But  there  was  not 
a  flutter  of  Joy's  black  dress,  not  an  echo 
of  Winnie's  cry.  The  sunset  was  fading  fast 
in  the  west,  long  shadows  were  slanting  down 
83 


the  valley,  and  the  blaze  of  the  maples  was 
growing  faint.  On  the  mountains  it  was  quite 
blotted   out  by  the  gathering  darkness. 

''What  shall  I  do?"  cried  Gypsy,  think- 
ing, with  a  great  sinking  at  her  heart,  how 
cold  the  nights  were  now,  and  how  early  it 
grew   quite  dark. 

"  Hev  you  been  'long  that  ere  cross-road 
't  opens  aout  through  the  woods  onto  the 
three-mile  square?"  asked  Mr.  Jonathan. 
"  I've  been  a  thinkin'  on't  as  heow  the  young 
uns  might  ha  took  that  ere  ef  they  was  flus- 
tered beout  knowin'  the  way  neow  mos' 
likely." 

"  Oh,  what  a  splendid,  good  man  you  are!  " 
said  Gypsy,  jumping  up  and  down,  and  clap- 
ping her  hands  with  delight.  "  Nobody 
thought  of  that,  and  I'll  never  run  over  your 
plowed-up  land  again  as  long  as  ever  I  live, 
and  I'm  going  right  to  tell  father,  and  you 
see  if  I   do!  " 

Her  father  wondered  that  they  had  not 
84 


thought  of  it,  and  old  Billy  was  harnessed  in 
a  hurry,  and  they  started  for  the  three-mile 
cross-roads.  Gypsy  went  with  them.  Nobody 
spoke  to  her  except  to  ask  questions  now  and 
then  as  to  the  precise  direction  the  children 
took,  and  the  time  they  started  for  home. 
Gpysy  leaned  back  in  the  carriage,  peering  out 
into  the  gloom  on  either  side,  calling  Joy's 
name  now  and  then,  or  Winnie's,  and  busy 
with  her  own  wretched  thoughts.  Whatever 
they  were,  she  did  not  very  soon  forget 
them. 

It  was  very  dark  now,  and  very  cold;  the 
crisp  frost  glistened  on  the  grass,  and  an 
ugly-looking  red  moon  peered  over  the  moun- 
tain. It  seemed  to  Gypsy  like  a  great,  glar- 
ing eye,  that  was  singling  her  out  and  fol- 
lowing her,  and  asking,  "  Where  are  Joy 
and  Winnie?"  over  and  over.  "Gypsy 
Breynton,  Gypsy  Breynton,  where  are  Joy 
and  Winnie? "  She  turned  around  with  her 
back  to   it,    so    as   not    to    see    it. 


Once  they  passed  an  old  woman  on  the 
road  hobbling  along  with  a  stick.  Mr. 
Breynton  reined  up  and  asked  if  she  had 
seen    anything  of   two    children. 

"Haow?"said  the    old   woman. 

"Have  you  seen  anything  of  two  children 
along  here?" 

"  Chilblains?  No,  I  don't  have  none  this 
time  o'  year,  an'  I  don't  know  what  business 
it    is    o'  yourn,   nuther." 

"Children!"  shouted  Mr.  Breynton;  "two 
children,  a   boy  and    a   girl." 

"  Speak  a  little  louder,  can't  you?  I'm. 
deaf,"    said   the    old  woman. 

"  Have  you  —  seen  anything  —  of  —  two  — ■ 
children  —  a  little  boy,   and  a    girl  in  black?  " 

"Chickens?  black  chickens?"  said  the  old 
woman,  with  an  angry  shake  of  the  head; 
"no,  I  hain't  got  no  chickens  for  yer.  My 
pullet's  white,  and  I  set  a  heap  on't  an' 
wouldn't  sell  it  to  nobody  as  come  askin' 
oncivil   questions   of  a  lone,   lorn    widdy.      Be- 


sides,    the    cat    eat    it   up   las'    week,    feathers 
V  all." 

Mr.  Breynton  concluded  there  was  not 
much  information  to  be  had  in  that  quarter, 
and  drove  on. 

A  little  way  farther  they  came  across  a 
small  boy  turning  somersets  in  the  ditch. 
Mr.  Breynton  stopped  again  and  repeated  his 
questions. 

"How  many  of  'em?"  asked  the  boy,  with 
a  thoughtful  look. 

"  Two,   a   boy  and  a  girl." 

"Two?" 

"  Yes." 

"A  boy  and  a  girl? " 

"Yes." 

' '  You  said  one  was  a  boy  and  t'other  was 
a  girl?"  repeated  the  small  boy,  looking 
very  bright. 

"Yes.     The    boy  was    quite    small,  and  the 
girl    wore    a    black   dress.     They're    lost,    an  el 
we're    trying  to  find  them." 
87 


"Be  you,  now,  really!"  said  the  small 
boy,  apparently  struck  with  sudden  and  over- 
whelming  admiration.  "  That  is  terribly 
good  in  you.  Seems  to  me  now  I  reckon  I 
see  two  young  uns  'long  here  somewhars, 
didn't  I  ?     Le'  me  see." 

"Oh,  where,  where?"  cried  Gypsy.  "Oh, 
I'm  so  glad!  Did  the  little  boy  have  on  a 
plaid  jacket   and    brown  coat?  " 

"Waal,  now,  seems  as  ef  'twas  somethin' 
like  that." 

"And  the  girl  wore  a  hat  and  a  long 
veil?"  pursued  Gypsy,  eagerly. 

"  Was  she  about  the  height  of  this  girl 
here,  and  whereabouts  did  you  see  her  ? " 
asked  Tom. 

"Waal,  couldn't  tell  exactly;  somewhars 
between  here  an'  the  village,  I  reckon. 
Seems  to  me  she  did  have  a  veil  or  suthin'." 

"And  she  was  real  pale?"  cried  Gypsy, 
"and   the  boy  was  dreadfully  muddy?" 

"Couldn't   say    as  to   that" — the    small  boy 


began  to  hesitate  and  look  very  wise — "don't 
seem  to  remember  the  mud,  and  on  the 
whole,  I  ain't  partiklar  sure  'bout  the  veil. 
Oh,  come  to  think  on't,  it  wasn't  a  gal;  it 
was  a  deaf  old  woman,  an'  there  warn't  no 
boy  noways." 

Well  was  it  for  the  small  boy  that,  as  the 
carriage  rattled  on,  he  took  good  care  to  be 
out  of  the  reach  of    Tom's  whip-lash. 

It  grew  darker  and  colder,  and  the  red 
moon  rode  on  silently  in  the  sky.  They  had 
come  now  to  the  opening  of  the  cross-road, 
but  there  were  no  signs  of  the  children — 
only  the  still  road  and  the  shadows  under 
the  trees. 

"Hark!  what's  that?"  said  Mr.  Breynton, 
suddenly.  He  stopped  the  carriage,  and  they 
all  listened.  A  faint,  sobbing  sound  broke 
the  silence.  Gypsy  leaned  over  the  side  of 
the  carriage,  peering  in  among  the  trees 
where  the    shadow  was  blackest. 

"Father,   may  I  get  out  a  minute ?" 


She  sprang  over  the  wheel,  ran  into  the 
cross-road,  into  a  clump  of  bushes,  pushed 
them   aside,   screamed  for  joy. 

"Here  they  are,  here  they  are — quick, 
quick!  Oh,  Winnie  Breynton,  do  just  wake 
up  and  let  me  look  at  you!  Oh,  Joy,  I  am 
so  glad! " 

And  there  on  the  ground,  true  enough, 
sat  Joy,  exhausted  and  frightened  and  sob- 
bing, with  Winnie  sound  asleep  in  her  lap. 

"  I  didn't  know  the  way,  and  Winnie  kept 
telling  me  wrong,  and,  oh,  I  was  so  tired, 
and  I  sat  down  to  rest,  and  it  is  so  dark, 
and — and  oh,  I  thought  nobody'd  ever  come !  " 

And  poor  Joy  sprang  into  her  uncle's  arms, 
and  cried  as  hard  as  she  could  cry. 

Joy  was  thoroughly  tired  and  chilled;  it 
seemed  that  she  had  had  to  carry  Winnie  in 
her  arms  a  large  part  of  the  way,  and  the 
child  was  by  no  means  a  light  weight.  Evi- 
dently, Master  Winnie  had  taken  matters 
pretty    comfortably    throughout,    having    had, 


Joy  said,  the  utmost  confidence  in  his  own 
piloting,  declaring  ';it  was  just  the  next 
house,  right  around^  the  corner,  Joy;  how 
stupid  in  her  not  to  know!  he  knew  all 
the  whole  of  it  just  as  well  as  anything," 
and  was  none  the  worse  for  the  adventure. 
Gypsy  tried  to  wake  him  up,  but  he  doubled 
up  both  fists  in  his  dream,  and  greeted  her 
with  the  characteristic  reply,  ''Naughty!" 
and  that  was  all  that  was  to  be  had  from 
him.  So  he  was  rolled  up  warmly  on  the 
carriage  floor;  they  drove  home  as  fast  as 
Billy  would  go,  and  the  two  children,  after 
a  hot  supper  and  a  great  many  kisses,  were 
put  snugly  to  bed. 

After  Joy  was  asleep,  Mrs.  Breynton  said 
she  would  like  to  see  Gypsy  a  few  moments 
downstairs. 

"  Yes'm,"  said  Gypsy,  and  came  slowly 
down.  They  sat  down  in  the  dining-room 
alone.  Mrs.  Breynton  drew  up  her  rocking- 
chair  by  the  fire,  and  Gypsy  took  the  cricket. 


There  was  a  silence.  Gypsy  had  an  un- 
comfortable feeling  that  her  mother  was 
waiting  for  her  to  speak  first.  She  kicked 
off  her  slipper,  and  put  it  on;  she  rattled 
the  tongs,  and  pounded  the  hearth  with  the 
poker;  she  smoothed  her  hair  out  of  her 
eyes,  and  folded  up  her  handkerchief  six 
times;  she  looked  up  sideways  at  her  mother; 
then  she  began  to  cough.  At  last  she  broke 
out — 

"I  suppose  you  want  me  to  say  I'm  sorry. 
Well,  I  am.  But  I  don't  see  why  I'm  to 
blame,   I'm  sure." 

"  I  haven't  said  you  were  to  blame,"  said 
her  mother,  quietly.  "You  know  I  have  had 
no  time  yet  to  hear  what  happened  this 
afternoon,  and  I  thought  you  would  like  to 
tell   me." 

"Well,"  said  Gypsy,  "I'd  just  as  lief;" 
and  Gypsy  looked  a  little,  a  very  little,  as 
if  she  hadn't  just  as  lief  at  all.  "You  see, 
'  in  the   first   place   and   commencing, '  as  Win- 


nie  says,  Joy  wanted  to  take  him.  Now,  she 
doesn't  know  anything  about  that  child,  not 
a  thing,  and  if  she'd  taken  him  to  places 
as  much  as  I  have,  and  had  to  lug  him 
home  screaming  all  the  way,  I  guess  she 
would  have  stopped  wanting  to,  pretty  quick, 
and  I  always  take  Winnie  when  I  can,  you 
know  now,  mother;  and  then  Joy  wouldn't 
talk  going  over,   either." 

"Whom  did  she  walk  with?"  interrupted 
Mrs.   Breynton. 

"Why,  with  Winnie,  I  believe.  Of  course 
she  might  have  come  on  with  Sarah  and 
Delia  and  me  if  she'd  wanted  to,  but  —  I 
don't   know " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.   Breynton,  "go  on." 

"Then,  you  see,  Joy  didn't  like  chestnuts, 
and  couldn't  climb,  and  —  oh,  Winnie  kept 
losing  his  shoes,  and  got  stuck  in  the  fence, 
and  you  never  saw  anything  so  funny !  And 
then  Joy  couldn't  climb,  and  she  just  hung 
there  swinging;    and  now,    mother,   I   couldn't 

93 


help  laughing  to  save  me,  it  was  so  exactly 
like  a  great  pendulum  with  hoops  on.  Well. 
Joy  was  mad  'cause  we  laughed  and  all.  and 
so  she  said  she'd  go  home.  Then  —  let  me 
see  —  oh,  it  was  after  that,  Winnie  tumbled 
into  the  ditch,  splash  in !  with  his  feet  up 
in  the  air,  and  I  thought  I  should  go  off  to 
see   him." 

"But    what    about    Joy?" 

"Oh,  well,  Joy  took  Winnie  —  he  was  so 
funny  and  muddy,  you  don't  know  —  'cause 
she  brought  him,  you  know,  and  so  they 
came  home,  and  I  thought  she  knew  the 
way  as  much  as  could  be,  and  I  guess  that's 
all." 

"Well,"  said  her  mother,  after  a  pause, 
'"what    do   you    think    about    it?" 

"About    what?" 

"  Do  you  think  you  have  done  just  right, 
Gypsy  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  not,"  said  Gypsy,  un- 
easily.      "It    was    perfectly    fair    Joy   should 


take  Winnie,  and  of  course  I  wasn't  bound 
to  give  up  my  nuttingi  party  and  come  home, 
just    for   her." 

"I'm  not  speaking  of  what  is  fair,  Gypsy. 
Strictly  speaking,  Joy  had  her  rights,  and 
you  had  yours,  and  the  arrangement  might 
have  been  called  fair  enough.  But  what  do 
you  think  honestly,  Gypsy  —  were  you  a 
little    selfish  ?  " 

Gypsy  opened  her  eyes  wide.  Honestly 
she  might  have  said  she  didn't  know.  She 
was  by  nature  a  generous  child,  and  the 
charge  of  selfishness  was  seldom  brought 
against  her.  Plenty  of  faults  she  had,  but 
they  were  faults  of  quick  temper  and  care- 
lessness. Of  deliberate  selfishness  it  had 
scarcely  ever  occurred  to  her  that  anybody 
could  think  her  capable.     So   she  echoed — 

"  Selfish  !  "  in   simple  surprise. 

"Just  look  at  it,"  said  her  mother,  gently; 
"  Joy  was  your  visitor,  a  stranger,  feeling 
awkward    and    unhappy,   most    probably,  with 


the  girls  whom  you  knew  so  well,  and  not 
knowing  anything-  about  the  matters  whi^h 
you  talked  over.  You  might,  might  you  not, 
have  by  a  little  effort  made  her  soon  feel  st 
home  and  happy?  Instead  of  that,  you  went 
off  with  the  girls,  and  let  her  fall  behind, 
with  nobody  but  Winnie  to  talk  to." 

Gypsy's  face  turned  to  a  sudden  crimson. 

"Then,  a  nutting  party  was  a  new  thing 
tc  Joy,  and  with  the  care  of  Winnie  and  all, 
it  is  no  wonder  she  did  not  find  it  very 
pleasant,  and  she  had  never  climbed  a  tree 
in  her  life.  This  was  her  first  Saturday  after- 
noon in  Yorkbury,  and  she  was,  no  doubt, 
feeling"  lonely  and  homesick,  and  it  made  her 
none  the  happier  to  be  laughed  at  for  not 
doing  something  she  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  how  to  do.  Was  it  quite  generous  ix. 
let  her  start  off  alone,  over  a  strange  road, 
with  the  care  of  a  crying " 

"And  muddy,"  put  in  Gypsy,  with  twink- 
ling eyes,    "  from  head  to  foot,  black  as  a  shoe." 

96 


"And  muddy    child?"  finished  Mrs.    Breyn- 
ton,   smiling  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  But    Joy   wanted  to   take    him,    and   I  told 
her  so.     It  was  her  own  bargain." 

I    know    that.       But    we     are     not 

speaking   of   bargains,   Gypsy;   we 

are   speaking  of  what  is  kind   and 

generous.       Now,     ho  w 

does    it    strike    you?" 

"  It  strikes  me," 

said   Gypsy,  in  her 

honest  way,  after  a 

moment's  pause — 

"it   strikes  me  that   I'm  a 

horrid    selfish    old    thing, 

and  I  ve  lived  twelve  years 

and  just  found  it  out;  there  now  !  " 

Just  as  Gypsy  was  going  to  bed  she  turned 

around  with  the  lamp  in  her  hand,  her  great  eyes 

dreaming  away  in  the  brownest  of  brown  studies. 

"  Mother,  is  it  selfish  to  have  upper  drawers, 

and  front  sides,   and  things?" 

97 


"What  are  you  talking  about,   Gypsy?" 

"  Why,  don't  my  upper  drawers,  and  the 
front  side  of  the  bed,  and  all  that,  belong  to 
me,  and  must  I  give  them  up  to  Joy?" 

4  It  is  not  necessary,"  said  her  mother, 
laughing.  But  Gypsy  fancied  there  was  a 
slight  emphasis  on  the  last  word. 

Joy  was  sound  asleep,  and  dreaming  that 
Winnie  was  a  rattlesnake  and  Gypsy  a  prairie- 
dog,  when  somebody  gave  her  a  little  pinch 
and  woke  her  up. 

'•'Oh — why — what's    the  matter?"  said   Joy. 

"  Look  here,  you  might  just  as  well  have 
the  upper  bureau  drawers,  you  know,  and  I 
don't  care  anything  about  the  front  side  of 
the  bed.  Besides,  I  wish  I  hadn't  let  you 
come  home  alone  this  afternoon." 

"Well,  you  arc  the  funniest !  "  said  Joy. 


N    Monday    Joy    went     to     school. 
Gypsy  had  been  somewhat  aston- 
ished,  a    little  hurt,  and    a   little 
angry,   at    hearing   her    say,    one 
day,     that    she     "didn't     think    it    was    a    fit 
place    for    her    to    go — a    high    school     where 
all  the   poor  people  went." 

But,  fit  or  not,  it  was  the  the  only  school 
to  be  had,  and  Joy  must  go.  Perhaps,  or 
<*ome    accounts,     Mrs.     Breynton   would    have 


preferred  sending  the  children  to  a  private 
school;  but  the  only  one  in  town,  and  the 
one  which  Gypsy  had  attended  until  this  term, 
was  broken  up  by  the  marriage  of  the  teacher, 
so  she  had  no  choice  in  the  matter.  The 
boys  at  the  high  school  were,  some  of  them, 
rude,  but  the  girls  for  the  most  part  were 
quiet,  well-behaved,  and  lady-like,  and  the 
instruction  was  undoubtedly  vastly  superior  to 
that  of  a  smaller  school.  As  Gypsy  said, 
"you  had  to  put  into  it  and  study  like 
everything,  or  else  she  gave  you  a  horrid  old 
black  mark,  and  then  you  felt  nice  when  it 
was  read    aloud    at  examination,   didn't   you?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  care,"   said  Joy. 

"Why,  Joyce  Miranda  Breynton ! "  said 
Gypsy.  But  Joy  declared  she  wouldn't,  and 
it  was  very  soon  evident  that  she  didn't.  She 
had  not  the  slightest  fancy  for  her  studies; 
neither  had  Gypsy,  for  that  matter;  but 
Gypsy  had  been  brought  up  to  believe  it 
was    a    disgrace    to    get    bad    marks.     Joy  had 


not.  She  hurried  through  her  lessons  in  the 
quickest  possible  fashion,  anyhow,  so  as  to 
get  through,  and  out  to  play;  and  limped 
through  her  recitations  as  well  as  she  could. 
Once  Gypsy  saw — and  she  was  thoroughly 
shocked  to  see — Joy  peep  into  the  leaves  of 
her  grammar  when  Miss  Cardrew's  eyes 
were  turned  the  other  way. 

Altogether,  matters  did  not  go  on  very 
comfortably.  Joy's  faults  were  for  the  most 
part  those  from  which  Gypsy  was  entirely 
free,  and  to  which  she  had  a  special  and 
inborn  aversion.  On  the  other  hand,  many 
of  Gypsy's  failings  were  not  natural  to  Joy. 
Gypsy  was  always  forgetting  things  she 
ought  to  remember.  Joy  seldom  did.  Gypsy 
was  thoughtless,  impulsive,  always  into  mis- 
chief, out  of  it,  sorry  for  it,  and  in  again. 
Joy  did  wrong  deliberately,  as  she  did  every- 
thing else,  and  did  not  become  penitent  in 
a  hurry.  Gypsy's  temper  was  like  a  flash 
of    lightning,     hot    and    fierce     and      melting 


right  away  in  the  softest  of  summer  rains. 
When  Joy  was  angry  she  sulked.  Joy  was 
precise  and  neat  about  everything.  Gypsy 
was  not.  Then  Joy  kept  still,  and  Gypsy 
talked;  Joy  told  parts  of  stories,  Gypsy  told 
the  whole;  Joy  had  some  foolish  notions 
about  money  and  dresses  and  jewelry,  on 
which  Gypsy  looked  with  the  most  supreme 
contempt — not  on  the  dresses,  but  the  no- 
tions. Therefore  there  was  plenty  of  material 
for  rubs  and  jars,  and  of  all  sad  things  to 
creep  into  a  happy  house,  these  rubs  and 
jars   are    the    saddest. 

One  day  both  the  girls  woke  full  of  mis- 
chief. It  was  a  bracing  November  day, 
cool  as  an  ice-cream  and  clear  as  a  whistle. 
The  air  sparkled  like  a  fountain  of  golden 
sands,  and  was  as  full  of  oxygen  as  it  could 
hold;  and  oxygen,  you  must  know,  is  at  the 
bottom  of  a  great  deal  of  the  happiness  and 
misery,    goodness    and  badness,   of  this  world. 

''  I     tell  you    if     I     don't   feel    like    cutting 


up ! "  said  Gypsy,  M WJr  on  the  way  to 
school.  Gypsy  *rf0K/b*  didn't  look  unlike 
"cutting  up"  either,  walking  along  there  with 
her  satchel  swung  over  her  left  shoulder,  her 
turban  set  all  askew  on  her  bright,  black  hair, 
her  cheeks  flushed  from  the  jumping  of  fences 
and  running  of  races  that  had  been  going  on 
since  she  left  the  house,  and  that  saucy  twinkle 
in  her  eyes.     Joy   was  always  somewhat    more 


demure,  but  she  looked,  too,  that  morning, 
as  if  she  were  quite  as  ready  to  have  a  good 
time  as  any  other  girl. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Gypsy,  confidentially, 
as  they  went  up  the  schoolhouse  steps,  "  I 
feel  precisely  as  if  I  should  make  Miss  Car- 
drew  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to-day;  don't 
you?" 

"What  does  she  do  to  you  if  you  do?" 
"  Oh,  sometimes  she  keeps  you  after 
school,  and  then  again  she  tells  Mr.  Guern- 
sey, and  then  there  are  the  bad  marks. 
Miss  Melville  —  she's  my  old  teacher  that 
married  Mr.  Hallam,  she  was  just  silly 
enough!  —  well,  she  used  to  just  look  at  you, 
and    never    open    her    lips,  and    I    guess    you 

wished  you  hadn't    pretty    quick." 

It  was  very  early  yet,  but  quite  a  crowd 
was  gathered  in  the  schoolhouse,  as  was  the 
fashion  on  cool  mornings.  The  boys  were 
stamping  noisily  over  the  desks,  and  grouped 
about    the    stove    in   No.    i.     No.    i.  was    the 


large  room  where  the  whole  school  gathered 
for  prayer.  A  few  of  the  girls  were  there 
—  girls  who  laughed  rudely  and  talked 
loudly,  none  of  them  Gypsy's  friends.  Tom 
never  liked  to  have  Gypsy  linger  about  in 
No.  i,  before  or  after  school  hours;  he  said 
it  was  not  the  place  for  her,  and  Tom  was 
there  that  morning,  knotting  his  handsome 
brows  up  into  a  very  decided  frown,  when 
he  saw  her  in  the  doorway,  with  Joy 
peeping  over  her  shoulder.  So  Gypsy  — 
somewhat  reluctantly,  it  must  be  confessed, 
for  the  boys  seemed  to  be  having  a  good 
time,  and  with  boys'  good  times  she  had  a 
most  unconquerable  sympathy — went  up  with 
Joy  into  Miss  Cardrew's  recitation  room. 
Nobody  was  there.  A  great,  empty  school- 
room, with  its  rows  of  silent  seats  and 
closed  desks,  with  power  to  roam  whitherso- 
ever you  will,  and  do  whatsoever  you 
choose,  is  a  great  temptation.  The  girls  ran 
over    the    desks,   and    looked    into   the    desks. 


jumped  over  the  settees,  and  knocked  down 
the  settees,  put  out  the  fire  and  built  it  up 
again,  from  the  pure  luxury  of  doing  what 
the}7  wanted  to,  in  a  place  where  they  usually 
had  to  do  what  they  didn't  want  to.  They 
sat  in  Miss  Cardrew's  chair,  and  peeped  into 
her  desk;  they  ate  apples  and  snapped  pea- 
nut shells  on  the  very  platform  where  sat 
the  spectacled  and  ogre-eyed  committee  on 
examination  days;  they  drew  all  manner  of 
pictures  of  funny  old  women  without  any 
head,  and  old  men  ,,Tithout  any  feet,  on  the 
awful  blackboard,  ana  played  ''tag"  round  the 
globes.     Then  they  stopped  for  want  of  breath. 

"I  wish  there  were  something  to  do," 
sighed  Gypsy;  "something  real  splendid  and 
funny." 

"  I  knew  a  girl  once,  and  she  drew  a  pic- 
ture of  the  teacher  on  the  board  in  green 
chalk,"  suggested  Joy;  "only  she  lost  her 
recess  for  a  whole  week  after  it." 

"That    wouldn't    do.     Besides,   pictures    are 


too  common;  everybody  does  those.  Boys  put 
pins  in  the  seats,  and  cut  off  the  legs  of  the 
teacher's  chair,  and  all  that.  I  don't  know  as  I 
care  to  tumble  Miss  Cardrew  over — wouldn't  she 
look  funny,  though! — 'cause  mother  wouldn't 
like  it.  Couldn't  we  make  the  stove  smoke, 
or  put    pepper  in   the  desks,  or — let  me  see." 

"Dress  up  something  somehow,"  said  Joy; 
"•there's  the  poker." 

Gypsy  shook  her  head. 

"  Delia  Guest  did  that  last  term,  'n'  the 
old  thing — I  mean  the  poker,  not  Delia — went 
flat  down  in  the  corner  behind  the  stove — 
flat,  just  as  Miss  Melville  was  coming  in,  and 
lay  there  in  the  wood-pile,  and  nobody  knew 
there  was  a  single  sign  of  a  thing  going  on. 
I  guess  you  better  believe  Delia  felt  cheap! — 
hark!  what's  that?" 

It  was  a  faint  miaow  down  in  the  yard. 
The  girls  ran  to  the  window  and    looked  out. 

"  A  kitten!" 

"The  very  thing!" 

107 


"I'm  going  right  down  to  get  her." 

Down  they  ran,  both  of  them,  in  a  great 
hurry,  and  brought  the  creature  up.  The 
poor  thing  was  chilled,  and  hungry,  and 
frightened.  They  took  her  up  to  the  stove, 
and  Gypsy  warmed  her  in  her  apron,  and 
Joy  fed  her  with  cookies  from  her  lunch- 
basket,  till  she  curled  her  head  under  her 
paws  with  a  merry  purr,  all  ready  for  a  nap. 
and  evidently  without  the  slightest  suspicion 
that  Gypsy's  lap  was  not  foreordained,  and 
created  for  her  especial  habitation  as  long  as 
she  might  choose  to  remain  there. 

"  Joy,"  said  Gypsy,  suddenly,  "  I've  thought 
of  something." 
.     "  So  have  I." 

"To  dress  her " 

"Up  in  a  handkerchief." 

"  And  things." 

"  I  know  it." 

"And  put  her " 

"Yes!  into  Miss  Cardrew's  desk!" 


"Won't  it  be  just " 

"Splendid!    Hurry  up!" 

They  "hurried  up"  in  good  earnest,  chok- 
ing down  their  laughter  so  that  nobody 
downstairs  might  hear  it.  Joy  took  her 
pretty,  purple-bordered  handkerchief  and  tied 
it  over  the  poor  kitten's  head  like  a  nightcap, 
so  tight  that,  pull  and  scratch  as  she  might, 
pussy  could  not  get  it  off.  Gypsy's  black 
silk  apron  was  tied  about  her,  like  a  long 
baby-dress,  a  pair  of  mittens  were  fastened 
on  her  arms,  and  a  pink  silk  scarf  around 
her  throat.  When  all  was  done,  Gypsy  held 
her  up,  and  trotted  her  on  her  knee.  Any- 
body who  has  ever  dressed  up  a  cat  like  a 
baby,  knows  how  indescribably  funny  a  sight 
it  is.  It  seemed  as  if  the  girls  could  never 
stop  laughing— it  does  not  take  much  to 
make  girls  laugh.  At  last  there  was  a  com- 
motion in  the  entry  below. 

"It's  the  girls! — quick,  quick!' 

Gypsy,    trying    to    get    up,     tripped  on  her 


dress  and  fell,  and  away  flew  the  kitten,  all 
tangled  in  the  apron,  making  for  the  door 
as  fast   as   an  energetic    kitten  could   go. 

"She'll  be  downstairs,  and  maybe  Miss 
Cardrew's  there!     Oil!" 

Joy  sprang  after  the  creature,  caught  her 
by  the  very  tip  end  of  her  tail  just  as  she 
was  preparing  to  pounce  down  the  stairs,  and 
ran    with    her   to    Miss    Cardrew's   desk. 

"Put  her  in — quick,   quick!" 

"  O-oh,  she  won't  lie  still!" 

"  Where's  the  lunch-basket?  Give  me  some 
biscuit — there!     I  hear  them  on  the  stairs!" 

The    kitten    began  to  mew  piteously,   strug- 
gling  to   get  out  with    all    her  might.     Down 
went    the    desk-cover   on    her   paws. 
■    "There  now,  lie  still!     Oh,  hear  her  mew! 
What  shall  we  do?" 

Quick  footsteps  were  on  the  stairs — half- 
way up;  merry  laughter,  and  a  dozen 
voices. 

"  Here's     the    biscuit.      Here,    kitty,    kitty, 


poor  kit-ty,  do  please  to  lie  still  and  eat  it! 
Oh,    Joy    Breynton,    did   you   ever?" 

''There,    she's    eating-!" 

"Shut   the    desk — hurry!" 

When  the  girls  came  in.  Joy  and  Gypsy 
were  in  their  seats,  looking  over  the  arith- 
metic lesson.  Joy's  book  was  upside  down,  and 
Gypsy  was  intensely  interested  in  the  preface. 

Miss  Cardrew  came  in  shortly  after,  and 
stood  warming  her  fingers  at  the  stove,  nod- 
ding and  smiling  at  the  girls.  All  was  still 
so  far  in  the  desk.  Miss  Cardrew  went  up 
and  laid  down  her  gloves  and  pushed  back 
her  chair.  Joy  coughed  under  her  breath, 
and  Gypsy  looked  up  out  of  the  corners  of 
her  eyes. 

"Mr.  Guernsey  is  not  well  to-day,"  began 
Miss  Cardrew,  standing  by  the  desk,  "and 
we  shall  not  be  able  to  meet  as  usual  in  No. 
i  for  prayers.  It  has  been  thought  best  that 
each  department  should  attend  devotions  in 
its  own  room.     You  can  get  out  your  Bibles." 


Gypsy  looked  at  Joy,  and  Joy  looked  at 
Gypsy. 

Miss  Cardrew  sat  down.  It  was  very  still. 
A  muffled  scratching  sound  broke  into  the 
pause.  Miss  Cardrew  looked  up  careless- 
ly, as  if  to  see  where  it  came  from;  it 
stopped. 

"  She'll  open  her  desk  now,"  whispered 
Joy,   stooping  to  pick  up  a  book. 

"  See  here,  Joy,  I  almost  wish  we 
hadn't " 

' '  We  will  read  the  fourteenth  chapter  of 
John,"  spoke  up  Miss  Cardrew,  with  her 
Bible  in  her  hand.  No,  she  hadn't  opened 
her  desk.  The  Bible  lay  upon  the  outside 
of  it. 

"  Oh,  if  that  biscuit' 11  only  last  till  she 
gets  through  praying!" 

"Hush-sh!       She's  looking   this   way." 

Miss  Cardrew  began  to  read.  She  had  read 
just   four   verses,   when — 

"  Miaow!  " 


Gypsy  and  Joy  were  trying  very  hard  to 
iind  the  place.  Miss  Cardrew  looked  up  and 
around  the  room.  It  was  quite  still.  She 
read  two  verses  more. 

"Mi-aow!  mi-aow-aow!" 

Miss  Cardrew  looked  up  again,  round  the 
room,  over  the  platform,  under  the  desk, 
everywhere  but    in    it. 

"Girls,  did  any  of  you  make  that  sound?" 

Nobody  had.  Miss  Cardrew  began  to  read 
again.  All  at  once  Joy  pulled  Gypsy's 
sleeve. 

"Just  look  there!" 

"Where?" 

"Trickling  down  the  outside  of  the  desk!" 

"You  don't  suppose  she's  upset  the " 

"  Ink-bottle — yes." 

Miss  Cardrew  was  in  the  tenth  verse,  and 
the  room  was  very  still.  Right  into  the 
stillness  there  broke  again  a  distinct,  pro- 
longed, dolorous — 

"  Mi-aow-tftw  /" 

US 


And  this  time  Miss  Cardrew  laid  down 
her  Bible  and  lifted  the  desk-cover. 

It  is  reported  in  school  to  this  day  that 
Miss  Cardrew  jumped. 

Out  flew  the  kitten,  like  popped  corn  from 
a  shovel,  glared  over  the  desk  in  the  night- 
cap and  black  apron,  leaped  down,  and  flew, 
all  dripping  with  ink,  down  the  aisle,  out  of 
the  door,  and  bouncing  downstairs  like  an 
India-rubber  ball. 

Delia  Guest  and  one  or  two  of  the  other 
girls  screamed.  Miss  Cardrew  flung  out 
some  books  and  papers  from  the  desk.  It 
was  too  late;  they  were  dripping,  and 
drenched,  and  black.  The  teacher  quietly 
wiped  some  spots  of  ink  from  her  pretty 
blue  merino,   and  there  was  an  awful   silence. 

"Girls,"  said  Miss  Cardrew  then,  in  her 
grave,  stern  way,    "who  did  this?" 

Nobody  answered. 

"Who  put  that  cat  in  my  desk?"  repeated 
Miss  Cardrew. 


It  was  perfectly  still.  Gypsy's  cheeks  were 
scarlet.  Joy  was  looking  carelessly  about  the 
room,  scanning  the  taces  of  the  girls,  as  if 
she  were  trying  to  find  out  who  was  the 
guilty  one. 

"It  is  highly  probable  that  the  cat  tied 
herself  into  an  apron,  opened  the  desk  and 
shut  the  cover  down  on  herself,"  said  Miss 
Cardrew;  "we  will  look  into  this  matter. 
Delia    Guest,   did  you  put  her  in?" 

"No'm — he,  he!  I  guess  I — ha,  ha!  — 
didn't,"    said    Delia. 

"Next!" — and  down  the  first  row  went 
Miss  Cardrew,  asking  the  same  question  of 
every  girl,  and  the  second  row,  and  the 
third.  Gypsy  sat  on  the  end  of  the  fourth 
settee. 

"Gypsy  Breynton,  did  you  put  the  kitten 
in  my  desk? " 

"No'm,  I  didn't,"  said  Gypsy;  which  was 
true  enough.  It  was  Joy  who  did  that  part 
of  it. 


''Did  you  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
matter,  Gypsy? "  Perhaps  Miss  Cardrew  re- 
membered that  Gypsy  had  had  something  to 
do  with  a  few  other  similar  matters  since 
she  had  been  in  school. 

"Yes'm,"  said  honest  Gypsy,  with  crimson 
face    and   hanging   head,    "  I    did." 

"What  did  you  do?  " 

"  I  put  on  the  apron  and  the  tippet,  and 
— I  gave  her  the  biscuit.  I — thought  she'd 
keep  still  till  prayers  were  over,"  said 
Gypsy,    faintly. 

"But  you  did  not  put  her  in  the  desk?" 

"No'm. 

"And  you  know  who  did?" 

"  Yes'm." 

Miss  Cardrew  never  asked  her  scholars  to 
tell  of  each  other's  wrong-doings.  If  she 
had,  it  would  have  made  no  difference  to 
Gypsy.  She  had  shut  up  her  lips  tight  and 
not  another  word  would  she  have  said  for 
anybody.     She    had    told  the  truth  about  her- 


self,  but  she  was  under  no  obligations  to 
bring  Joy  into  trouble.  Joy  might  do  as 
she   liked. 

"Gypsy  Breynton  will  lose  her  recesses  for 
a  week  and  stay  an  hour  after  school  to- 
night," said  Miss  Cardrew.  "Joy,  did  you 
put    the    kitten    in    my    desk?" 

"No,    ma'am,"    said    Joy,    boldly. 

"Nor   have    anything   to    do    with   it?" 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Joy,  without  the  slight- 
est change  of  color. 

"Next! — Sarah  Rowe." 

Of  course  Sarah  had  not,  nor  anybody 
else.  Miss  Cardrew  let  the  matter  drop 
there    and   went    on  with    her   reading. 

Gypsy  sat  silent  and  sorry,  her  eyes  on 
her  Testament.  Joy  tried  to  whisper  some- 
thing to  her  once,  but  Gypsy  turned  away 
with  a  gesture  of  impatience  and  disgust- 
This  thing  Joy  had  done  had  shocked  her 
so  that  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not  bear 
the   sight  of    her   face   or  touch  of   her  hand. 


Never  since  she  was  a  very  little  child  had 
Gypsy  been  known  to  say  what  was  not 
true.  All  her  words  were  like  her  eyes — 
clear  as  sunbeams. 

At  dinner  Joy  did  all  the  talking-.  Mrs. 
Breynton  asked  Gypsy  what  was  the  matter, 
but  Gypsy  said  "Nothing."  If  Joy  did  not 
choose    to  tell    of   the  matter,   she  would   not. 

"What  makes  you  so  cross?"  said  Joy  in 
the  afternoon;  "nobody  can  get  a  word  out 
of  you,  and  you  don't  look  at  me  any 
more    than    if    I    weren't    here." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  ask  sach  a 
question !  "  exploded  Gypsy,  with  flashing  eyes. 
'•  You  know  what  you've  done  as  well  as  I 
do." 

"No,  I  don't,"  grumbled  Joy;  "just  'cause 
I  didn't  tell  Miss  Cardrew  about  that  horrid 
old  cat  —  I  wish  we'd  let  the  ugly  thing 
alone!  —  I  don't  see  why  you  need  treat  me 
as  if  I'd  been  murdering  somebody  and 
were    going    to    be    hung   for    it.     Besides,    I 


said  'Over  the  left'  to  myself  just  after 
I'd  told  her,  and  /  didn't  want  to  lose  my 
recess  if  you  did." 

Gypsy  shut  up  her  pink  lips  tight,  and 
made  no  answer. 

Joy  went  out  to  play  at  recess,  and  Gypsy 
stayed  in  alone  and  studied.  Joy  went  home 
with  the  girls  in  a  great  frolic  after  school, 
and  Gypsy  stayed  shut  up  in  the  lonely 
schoolroom  for  an  hour,  disgraced  and  mis- 
erable. But  I  have  the  very  best  of  reasons 
for  thinking  that  she  wasn't  nearly  as  miser- 
able as  Joy. 

Just  before  supper  the  two  girls  were  sit- 
ting drearily  together  in  the  dining-room, 
when  the  door-bell  rang. 

"It's  Miss  Cardrew!"  said  Joy,  looking  out 
of  the  window;  "what  do  you  suppose  she 
wants?" 

Gypsy  looked  up  carelessly;  she  didn't  very 
much  care.  She  had  told  Miss  Cardrew  all 
she  had  to  tell  and  received    her  punishment. 


As  for  her  mother,  she  would  have  gone  to 
her  with  the  whole  story  that  noon,  if  it 
hadn't   been    for   Joy's   part    in    it. 

"What  is  that  she  has  in  her  hand,  I 
wonder?"  said  Joy  uneasily,  peeping  through 
a  crack  in  the  door  as  Miss  Cardrew  passed 
through  the  entry;  "why,  I  declare!  if  it 
isn't  a  handkerchief,  as  true  as  you  live — 
all — inky!  " 

When  Miss  Cardrew  had  gone,  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton  came  out  of  the  parlor  with  a  very 
grave  face,  a  purple-bordered  handkerchief 
in  her  hand;  it  was  all  spotted  with  ink, 
and  the  initials  J.  M.  B.  were  embroidered 
on  it. 

"Joy." 
•    Joy  came  out  of  the  corner  slowly. 

"Come  here  a  minute." 

Joy  went  and  the  door  was  shut.  Just 
what  happened  that  next  half  hour  Gypsy 
never  knew.  Joy  came  upstairs  at  the  end 
of  it,  red-eyed  and  crying,    and  gentle. 


Gypsy  was  standing  by  the  window. 

"  Gypsy." 

''Well." 

"I  love  auntie  dearly,  now  I  guess  I  do." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Gypsy;  "everybody 
does." 

"I  hadn't  the  least  idea  it  was  so  wicked — 
not  the  least  idea.     Mother  used  to " 

But  Joy  broke  off  suddenly,  with  quiver- 
ing, crimson  lips. 

What  that  mother  used  to  do  Gypsy  never 
asked;  Joy  never  told  her — either  then,  or 
at  any  other  time. 


er-vn- 


t 


€eAce* 
IfoAYTtiomes 

ROOM:- 


TIS,  too." 
"It  isn't,   either." 
"  I  know  just  as  well  as  you." 
"  No    you    don't   any    such   a   thing. 
You've  lived  up  here  in  this  old  country  place 
all    your   life,    and   you    don't    know  any  more 
about  the  fashions  than  Mrs.  Surly." 

"But  I  know  it's  perfectly  ridiculous  to 
rig  up  in  white  chenille  and  silver  pins. 
when  anybody's  in  such  deep  mourning  as 
you.     /  wouldn't  do  it  for  anything." 

"I'll    take    care    of    myself,    if    you    please 
miss." 

"And  /know  another  thing,   too." 


-'You  do?     A  whole  thing?" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  know  you're  just  as  proud 
as  you  can  be,  and  I've  heard  more'n  one 
person  say  so.  All  the  girls  think  you're 
dreadfully  stuck  up  about  your  dresses  and 
things — so  there !  " 

"I  don't  care  what  the  girls  think,  or  you 
either.  I  guess  I'll  be  glad  when  father 
comes  home  and  I  get  out  of  this  house !  " 

Joy  fastened  the  gaudy  silver  pins  with  a 
jerk  into  the  heavy  white  chenille  that  she 
was  tying  about  her  throat  and  hair,  turned 
herself  about  before  the  glass  with  a  last 
complacent  look,  and  walked,  in  her  delib- 
erate, cool,  provoking  way,  from  the  room. 
Gypsy  got  up,  and — slammed  the  door  on 
her. 

Very  dignified  proceedings,  certainly,  for 
girls  twelve  and  thirteen  years  old.  An  un- 
speakably important  matter  to  quarrel  about — 
a  piece  of  white  chenille!  Angry  people,  be 
it   remembered,    are    not   given  to   over-much 


dignity,  and  how  many  quarrels  are  of  the 
slightest  importance? 

Yet  the  things  these  two  girls  found  to 
dispute,  and  get  angry,  and  get  miserable, 
and  make  the  whole  family  miserable  over, 
were  so  ridiculously  petty  that  I  hardly  ex- 
pect to  be  believed  in  telling  of  them.  The 
front  side  of  the  bed,  the  upper  drawer  in 
the  bureau,  a  hair-ribbon,  who  should  be 
helped  first  at  the  table,  who  was  the  best 
scholar,  which  was  the  more  stylish  color, 
drab  or  green,  and  whether  Vermont  wasn't 
a  better  State  than  Massachusetts  —  such 
matters  might  very  appropriately  be  the  sub- 
jects of  the  dissensions  of  young  ladies  in 
pinafores   and   pantalettes. 

Yet  I  think  you  will  bear  me  witness, 
girls,  some  of  you  —  ah,  I  know  you  by  the 
sudden  pink  in  your  cheeks  —  who  have 
gone  to  live  with  a  cousin,  or  had  a  cousin 
live  with  you,  or  whose  mother  has  adopted 
an  orphan,  or  taken  charge  of   a    missionary's 


daughter,  or  in  some  way  or  other  have 
been  brought  for  the  first  time  in  your  life 
into  daily  and  hourly  collision  with  another 
young  will  just  as  strong  and  unbending  as 
yours  —  can't  you  bear  me  witness  that,  in 
these  little  contests  between  Joy  and  Gypsy, 
I  am  telling  no  "  made-up  stories,"  but  sad, 
simple    fact? 

If   you   can't,    I   am    very   glad   of  it. 

No,  as  I  said  before,  matters  were  not 
going  on  at  all  comfortably;  and  every  week 
seemed  to  make  them  worse.  Wherein  lay 
the  trouble,  and  how  to  prevent  it,  neither 
of  the  girls  had  as  yet  exerted  themselves 
to  think. 

A  week  or  two  after  the  adventures  that 
befell  that  unfortunate  kitten,  something  hap- 
pened which  threatened  to  make  the  breach 
between  Gypsy  and  Joy  of  a  very  serious 
nature.  It  began,  as  a  great  many  other 
serious  things  begin,  in  a  very  small  and 
rather  funny  affair. 


Mrs.  Surly,  who  has  been  spoken  of  as 
Gypsy's  particular  aversion,  was  a  queer  old 
lady  with  green  glasses,  who  lived  opposite 
Mr.  Breynton's,  who  felt  herself  particularly 
responsible   for    Gypsy's     training,    and    gave 

c^i her     good    advice, 

double  measure,  pressed  down 
and  running  over.  One 
morning    it    chanced    that 


Gypsy  was  playing  "stick-knife"  with  Tom 
out  in  the  front  yard,  and  that  Mrs.  Surly 
beheld  her  from  her  parlor  window,  and  that 
Mrs.  Surly  was  shocked.  She  threw  up  her 
window   and   called  in  an  awful  voice — 


"Jemima  Breynton!" 

Now  you  might  about  as  well  challenge 
Gypsy  to  a  duel  as  call  her  Jemina;  so — 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  said,  none  too 
respectfully. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  Jemima 
Breynton." 

"  Say  ahead,"  said  Gypsy,  under  her 
breath,  and  did  not  stir  an  inch.  Distance 
certainly  lent  enchantment  to  the  view  when 
Mrs.  Surly  was  in  the  case. 

"Docs  your  ma  allow  you  to  be  so  bold 
as  to  play  boys'  games  with  boys,  right  out 
in   sight   of   folks? "  vociferated    Mrs.    Surly. 

"Certainly,"  nodded  Gypsy.  "It's  your 
turn,   Tom." 

"Well,  it's  my  opinion,  Gypsy  Breynton, 
you're  a  romp.  You're  nothing  but  a  romp, 
and   if   /  was  your   ma " 

Tom  dropped  his  knife  just  then,  stood 
up  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Surly.  For  reasons 
best   known   to   herself,    Mrs.  Surly   shut  the 


window    and    contented    herself    with    glaring 
through  the  glass. 

Now,  Joy  had  stood  in  the  doorway  and 
been  witness  to  the  scene,  and  moreover, 
having  been  reproved  by  her  aunt  for  some- 
thing or  other  that  morning,  she  felt  ill- 
humored,  and  very  ready  to  find  fault  in  her  turn. 

"  I  think  it's  just  so,  anyway,"  she  said. 
"/  wouldn't  be  seen  playing  stick-knife  for 
a  good  deal." 

"And  I  wouldn't  be  seen  telling  lies!" 
retorted  Gypsy,  sorry  for  it  the  minute  she 
had  said  it.  Then  there  followed  a  highly 
interesting  dialogue  of  about  five  minutes' 
length,  and  of  such  a  character  that  Tom 
speedily  took  his  departure. 

Now  it  came  about  that  Gypsy,  as  usual, 
was  the  first  ready  to  "make  up,"  and  she 
turned  over  plan  after  plan  in  her  mind,  to 
find  something  pleasant  she  could  do  for 
Joy.  At  last,  as  the  greatest  treat  she  could 
think    of   to    offer   her,    she    said: 


"I'll  tell  you  what!  Let's  go  down  to 
Peace  Maythorne's.  I  do  believe  I  haven't 
taken  you  there  since  you've  been  in  York- 
bury." 

"Who's  Peace  Maythorne?"  asked  Joy, 
sulkily. 

"Well,  she's  the  person  I  love  just  about 
best  of  anybody." 

"Best  of  anybody!" 

"  Oh,  mother,  of  course,  and  Tom,  and 
Winnie,  and  father,  and  all  those.  Rela- 
tions don't  count.  But  I  do  love  her  as  well 
as  anybody  but  mother — and  Tom,  and — 
well,  anyway,   I  love  her  dreadfully." 

"  What  is  she,  a  woman,  or  a  gi**,  or 
what? " 

"She's  an  angel,"  said  Gypsy. 

"What  a  goose  you  are!" 

"Very  likely;  but  whether  I'm  a  goose  or 
not,  she's  an  angel.  I  look  for  the  wings 
every  time  I  see  her.  She  has  the  sweetest 
little    way    of    keeping    'em    folded    up,     and 


you're  always  on  the  jump,  thinking  you 
see  'em." 

"How  you  talk!  I've  a  good  mind  to  go 
and  see  her." 

"All  right." 

So  away  they  went,  as  pleasant  as  a  sum- 
mer's day,  merrily  chatting. 

"But  I  don't  think  angels  are  very  nice, 
generally,"  said  Joy,  doubtingly.  "They 
preach.  Does  Peace  Maythorne  preach?  I 
shan't  like  her  if  she  does." 

"Peace  preach!  Not  like  her!  You'd  bet- 
ter know  what  you're  talking  about,  if  you're 
going  to  talk,"  said  Gypsy,  with  heightened 
color. 

"  Dear  me,  you  take  a  body's  head  off. 
Well,  if  she  should  preach,  I  shall  come 
right  home." 

They  had  come  now  to  the  village,  where 
were  the  stores  and  the  post-office,  the  bank, 
and  some  handsome  dwelling-houses.  Also 
the  one  paved  sidewalk  of  Yorkbury,  whereon 


the  young  people  did  their  promenading  after 
school  in  the  afternoon.  Joy  always  fancied 
coming  here,  gay  in  her  white  chenille  and 
white  ribbons,  and  dainty  parasol  lined  with 
white  silk.  There  is  nothing  so  showy  as 
showy  mourning,  and  Joy  made  the  most 
of  it. 

"Why,  where  are  you  going?"  she  ex- 
claimed at  last.  Gypsy  had  turned  away 
from  the  fashionable  street,  and  the  hand- 
some houses,  and  the  paved  sidewalk. 

"To  Peace  Maythorne's." 

"  This  way?" 

"  This  way." 

The  street  into  which  Gypsy  had  turned 
was  narrow  and  not  over  clean;  the  houses 
unpainted  and  low.  As  they  walked  on  it 
grew  narrower  and  dirtier,  and  the  houses 
became  tenement  houses  only. 

"Do,  for  pity's  sake,  hurry  and  get  out 
of  here,"  said  Joy,  daintily  holding  up  her 
dress.     Gypsy    walked   on    and    said   nothing. 


Red-faced  women  in  ragged  dresses  began  to 
cluster  on  the  steps;  muddy-faced  children 
screamed  and  quarreled  in  the  road.  At  the 
door  of  a  large  tenement  building,  somewhat 
neater  than  the  rest,  but  miserable  enough, 
Gypsy  stopped. 

"What  are  you  stopping  for?"  said  Joy. 

"This  is  where  she  lives." 

"Here?" 

"  I  just  guess  she  does,"  put  in  a  voice 
from  behind;  it  was  Winnie,  who  had  fol- 
lowed them  on  tiptoe,  unknown  to  them,  all 
the  way.  "She's  got  a  funny  quirk  in  her 
back,  'n'  she  lies  down  pretty  much.  That's 
her  room  up  there  to  the  top  of  the  house. 
It's  a  real  nice  place,  I  tell  you.  They  have 
onions  mos'  every  day.  Besides,  I  saw  a 
little  boy  here  one  time  when  I  was  comin* 
'long  with  mother,  'n'  he  was  smokin'  some 
tobaccer.  He  said  he'd  give  it  to  me  for 
two    nappies,    and    mother    just    wouldn't    let 

me." 

132 


"Here  —  a  cripple!"  exclaimed  Joy. 

"Here,  and  a  cripple,"  said  Gypsy,  in  a 
queer   tone,  looking  very  straight  at  Joy. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself!" 
broke  out  Joy,  "playing  such  a  trick  on  me. 
Do  you  suppose  I'm  going  into  such  a  place 
as  this,  to  see  an  old  beggar  —  a  hunch- 
backed beggar  ?  " 

Gypsy  turned  perfectly  white.  When  she 
was  very  angry,  too  angry  to  speak,  she 
always  turned  white.  It  was  some  seconds 
before    she  could  find  her  voice. 

"A  hunch-backed  beggar!  Peace?  How 
dare  you  say  such  things  of  Peace  May- 
thorne?  Joy  Breynton,  I'll  never  forgive  you 
for    this   as   long   as    I  live  —  never!" 

The  two  girls  looked  at  each  other.  Just 
at  that  moment  I  am  afraid  there  was  some- 
thing in  their  hearts  answering  to  that  for- 
bidden word,  that  terrible  word  —  hate.  Ah, 
we  feel  so  safe  from  it  in  our  gentle,  happy, 
untempted    lives,    just   as    safe    as    they    felt 


once.  Remember  this,  girls:  when  Love  goes 
ottt,  Hate  comes  in.  In  your  heart  there 
stands  an  angel,  watching,  t,._^nt,  on  whose 
lips  are  kindly  words,  in  whose  hands  are 
patient,  kindly  deeds,  whose  eyes  see  "  good 
in  everything,"  something  to  love  where  love 
is  hardest,  some  generous,  gentle  way  to 
show  that  love  when  ways  seem  closed. 
In  your  heart,  too,  away  down  in  its  dark- 
est corner,  all  forgotten,  perhaps,  by  you, 
crouches  something  with  face  too  black  to 
look  upon,  something  that  likewise  watches 
and  waits  with  horrible  patience,  if  perhaps 
the  angel,  with  folded  wing  and  drooping 
head,  may  be  driven  out.  It  is  never 
empty,  this  curious,  fickle  heart.  One  or 
the  other  must  stand  there,  king  of  it.  One 
or  the  other  —  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  the  change  is  made,  from  angel  to 
fiend,  from  fiend  to  angel  ;  just  which  you 
choose. 

Toy    broke    away     from     her    cousin    in    a 


passion.  Gypsy  flew  into  the  door  of  the 
miserable  house,  up  the  stairs  two  steps  at 
a  time,  to  the  door  of  a  low  room  in 
the  second  story,  and  rushed  in  without 
knocking. 

"  Oh,  Peace  Maythorne  !  " 

The  cripple  lying  on  the  bed  turned  her 
pale  face  to  the  door,  her  large,  quiet  eyes 
blue    with    wonder. 

"Why,   Gypsy!    What   is   the    matter?" 

Gypsy's  face  was  white  still,  very  white. 
She  shut  the  door  loudly,  and  sat  down  on 
the  bed  with  a  jar  that  shook  it  all  over. 
A  faint  expression  of  pain  crossed  the  face 
of    Peace. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  —  it  was  cruel  in 
me  !  How  could  I  ?  Have  I  hurt  you  very 
badly,  Peace  ? ' '  Gypsy  slipped  down  upon 
the  floor,  the  color  coming  into  her  face 
now,  from  shame  and  sorrow.  Peace  gently 
motioned  her  back  to  her  place  upon  the 
bed,    smiling. 


"  Oh,  no.  It  was  nothing.  Sit  up  here  ; 
I  like  to  have  you.  Now,  what  is  it, 
Gypsy  ? " 

The  tone  of  this  "What  is  it,  Gypsy?'' 
told  a  great  deal.  It  told  that  it  was  no 
new  thing  for  Gypsy  to  come  there  just  so, 
with  her  troubles  and  her  joys,  her  sins  and 
her  well-doings,  her  plans  and  hopes  and 
fears,  all  the  little  stories  of  the  fresh,  young 
life  from  which  the  cripple  was  forever  shut 
out.  It  told,  too,  what  Gypsy  found  in  this 
quiet  room,  and  took  away  from  it  —  all 
the  help  and  the  comfort,  and  the  sweet, 
sad  lessons.  It  told,  besides,  much  of  what 
Peace  and  Gypsy  were  to  each  other,  that 
only  they  two  should  ever  exactly  under- 
stand. It  was  a  tone  that  always  softened 
Gypsy,  in  her  gayest  frolics,  in  her  wildest 
moods.  For  the  first  time  since  she  had 
known    Peace,    it    failed  to  soften  her  now. 

She   began  in  her  impetuous  way,  her  face 

angry  and  flushed,   her  voice  trembling  yet  ;— 

i36 


"  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  is,  and  that's  the 
thing  of  it!     It's  about  that  horrid  old  Joy." 

"Gypsy!" 

"I  can't  help  it — I  hate  her!" 

"  Gypsy." 

Gypsy's  eyes  fell  at  the  gentle  word. 

"Well,  I  felt  just  as  if  I  did,  down  there 
on  the  steps,  anyway.  You  don't  know  what 
Joy  said.  It's  something  about  you,  and  that's 
what  makes  me  so  mad.  If  she  ever  says  it 
again !  " 

"About  me?"  interrupted  Peace. 

"Yes,"  said  Gypsy,  with  great,  flashing 
eyes.  "I  wouldn't  tell  it  to  you  for  all  the 
world;  it's  so  bad  as  that,  Peace.  How  she 
dared  to  call  you  a  beg " 

Gypsy  stopped  short.  But  she  had  let  the 
cat  out  of   the  bag.     Peace  smiled  again. 

"A  beggar!  Well,  it  doesn't  hurt  me  any, 
does  it?  Joy  has  never  seen  me,  doesn't  know 
me,  you  must  remember,  Gypsy.  Besides,  no- 
body else  thinks  as  much  of  me    as  you  do." 


"I  didn't  mean  to  say  that;  I'm  always 
saying  the  wrong  thing!  Anyway,  that  isn't 
all  of  it,  and  I  did  think  I  should  strike  her 
when  she  said  it.  I  can't  bear  Joy.  You 
don't  know  what  she  is,  Peace.  She  grows 
worse  and  worse.  She  does  things  I  wouldn't 
do  for  anything,  and  I  wish  she'd  never 
come  here!  " 

"Is  Joy  always  wrong?"  asked  Peace, 
gently.  Peace  rarely  gave  to  any  one  as 
much   of  a  reproof  as  that.     Gypsy  felt  it. 

"No,"  said  she,  honestly,  "she  isn't.  I'm 
real  horrid  and  wicked,  and  do  ugly  things. 
But  I  can't  help  it;  Joy  makes  me — she  acts  so." 

"  I  know  what's  the  matter  with  you  and 
Joy,    I   guess,"  said   Peace. 

.  "The  matter?  Well,  I  don't;  I  wish  I  did. 
We're  always  fight — fighting,  day  in  and  day 
out,  and  I'm  tired  to  death  of  it.  I'm  just 
crazy  for  the  time  for  Joy  to  go  home,  and 
I'm  dreadfully  unhappy  having  her  round, 
now  I  am,   Peace." 

138 


Gypsy  drew  down  her  merry,  red  iips,  and 
looked  very  serious.  To  tell  the  truth,  how- 
ever, do  the  best  she  would,  she  could  not 
look  altogether  as  if  her  heart  were  breaking 
from  the  amount  of  "  unhappiness "  that  fell 
to  her  lot.  A  little  smile  quivered  around 
the  lips  of  Peace. 

"Well,"  said  Gypsy,  laughing  in  spite  of 
herself,  "  I  am.  I  never  can  make  anybody 
believe  it,  though.  What  is  the  matter  with 
Joy  and  me?     You  didn't  say." 

"You've  forgotten  something,   I  think." 

"Forgotten  something?" 

"  Yes — something  you  read  me  once  out 
of  an  old  Book." 

"Book?  Oh!"  said  Gypsy,  beginning  to 
understand. 

"In  honor  preferring  one  another,"  said 
Peace,  softly.  Gypsy  did  not  say  anything. 
Peace  took  up  her  Bible  that  lay  on  the  bed 
beside  her — it  always  lay  on  the  bed — and 
turned    the    leaves,    and    laid    her    finger    on 


the  verse.  Gypsy  read  it  through  before 
she  spoke.     Then  she  said  slowly: 

"Why,  Peace  Maythorne.  I — never  could 
— in  this  world — never." 

Just  then  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 
Gypsy  went  to  open  it,  and  stood  struck 
dumb  for  amazement.      It  was  Joy. 

' '  Auntie  said  it  was  supper-time,  and  you 
were  to  come  home,"  began  Joy,  somewhat 
embarrassed.  "She  was  going  to  send 
Winnie,    but    I    thought    I'd    come." 

"Why,  I  never!"  said  Gypsy,  still  stand- 
ing  with    the    door-knob   in   her   hand. 

"  Is   this   your   cousin?  "  spoke  up  Peace. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  forgot.  This  is  Peace  May- 
thorne, Joy." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Peace  in  her 
pleasant    way;   "won't  you  come  in?" 

"Well,  perhaps  I  will,  a  minute,"  said  Joy, 
awkwardly,  taking  a  chair  by  the  window, 
and    wondering  if  Gypsy  had  told  Peace  what 

she  said.     But  Peace  was  so  cordial,  her  voice 

i4o 


so  quiet,  and  her  eyes  so  kind,  that  she  con- 
cluded she  knew  nothing  about  it,  and  soon 
felt  quite  at  her  ease.  Everybody  was  at 
ease  with  Peace  Maythorne. 

"How  pleasant  it  is  here!"  said  Joy,  look- 
ing about  the  room  in  unfeigned  astonish- 
ment. And  indeed  it  was.  The  furniture 
was  poor  enough,  but  everything  was  as  neat 
as  fresh  wax,  and  the  sunlight,  that  some- 
how or  other  always  sought  that  room  the 
earliest,  and  left  it  the  latest  —  the  warm, 
shimmering  sunlight  that  Peace  so  loved  — 
was  yellow  on  the  old,  faded  carpet,  on  the 
paperless,  pictureless  wall,  on  the  bed  where 
the    hands   of  Peace   lay,    patient    and  folded. 

"  It  is  pleasant,"  said  Peace,  heartily. 
"You  don't  know  how  thankful  it  makes 
me.  Aunt  came  very  near  taking  a  room  on 
the  north  side.  Sometimes  I  really  don't 
know  what  I  should  have  done.  But  then  I 
guess  I  should  have  found  something  else  to 
like." 

141 


/  should  have  found  something  else.  A 
sudden  thought  came  to  the  two  girls  then, 
in  a  dim,  childish  way  —  a  thought  they 
could  by  no  means  have  explained;  they 
wondered  if  in  those  few  words  did  not  lie 
the  key  to  Peace  Maythorne's  beautiful,  sor- 
rowful life.  They  would  not  have  expressed 
it    so,    but   that   was    what  they  meant. 

"  See  here,"  broke  out  Gypsy  all  at  once, 
"  Peace  Maythorne  wants  you  and  me  to 
make    up,   Joy." 

"Your  cousin  will  think  I'm  interfering 
with  what's  none  of  my  business,"  said 
Peace,  laughing.  "  I  didn't  say  exactly  that, 
you   know;    I    was  only    talking   to   you." 

"Oh,  I'd  just  as  lief  make  up  now,  but 
I  wouldn't  this  morning,"  wondering  for  the 
second  time  if  Peace  could  know  what  she 
said,  and  be  so  gentle  and  good  to  her;  "I 
will  if  Gypsy  will." 

"And  I  will  if  Joy  will,"  said  Gypsy, 
"so   it's  a  bargain." 


"Do  you  have  a  great  deal  of  pain?" 
asked  Joy,  as  they  rose  to  go,  with  real 
sympathy  in  her  puzzled    eyes. 

"  Oh,  yes;  but  then    I   get   along." 

"  Peace  Maythorne  !  "  put  in  Gypsy  just  then, 
"is  that  all  the  dinner  you  ate?"  Gypsy 
was  standing  by  the  table  on  which  was  a 
plate  containing  a  cold  potato,  a  broken 
piece  of  bread,  and  a  bit  of  beefsteak.  Evi- 
dently from  the  looks  of  the  food,  only  a 
few  mouthfuls  had  been  eaten. 

"  I  didn't  feel  hungry,"  said  Peace,  eva- 
sively. 

"  But  you  like  meat,  for  you  told  me  so." 

"I  didn't  care  about  this,"  said  Peace, 
looking  somewhat  restless. 

Gypsy  looked  at  her  sharply,  then  stooped 
and  whispered   a  few  words   in   her   ear. 

"No,"  said  Peace,  her  white  cheek  flush- 
ing crimson.  "Oh,  no,  she  never  told  me 
not  to.  She  means  to  be  very  kind.  I 
cost   her  a  great  deal." 


"  But  you  know  she'd  be  glad  if  you 
didn't  eat  much,  and  that  was  the  reason 
you  didn't,"  exclaimed  Gypsy,  angrily.  "I 
think    it's   abominable!" 

"  Hush!  please  Gypsy." 

Gypsy  hushed.  Just  then  the  door  opened 
and  Miss  Jane  Maythorne,  Peace's  aunt,  came 
in.  She  was  a  tall,  thin,  sallow-faced 
woman,  with  angular  shoulders  and  a  sharp 
chin.  She  looked  like  a  New  England  woman 
who  had  worked  hard  all  her  life  and  had 
much  trouble,  so  much  that  she  thought  of 
little  else  now  but  work  and  trouble;  who 
had  a  heart  somewhere,  but  was  apt  to  for- 
get  all     about   it   except    on    great    occasions.. 

"  I've    been     talking    to    Peace    about    not 

eating   more,"   said    Gypsy,    when  she  had  in- 

"  troduced      Joy,       and      said      good-afternoon. 

"  She'll    die    if    she    doesn't    eat    more    than 

that,"  pointing  to  the  plate. 

"  She  can  eat  all  she  wants,  as  far  as  I 
know,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  rather  shortly..     "No- 


body  ever  told  her  not  to.  It's  nothing  very 
fine  in  the  way  of  victuals  I  can  get  her, 
working  as  I  work  for  two,  and  most  beat 
out  every  night.  La!  Peace,  you  haven't 
eaten  your  meat,  have  you?  Well,  I'll  warm  it 
over  to-morrow,  and  it'll  be  as  good  as  new." 

"The  old  dragon!"  exclaimed  Gypsy,  un- 
der her  breath,  as  the  girls  went  out.  "  She 
is  a  dragon,  nothing  more  nor  less — a  dragon 
that  doesn't  scold  particularly,  but  a  dragon 
that  looks.  I'd  rather  be  scolded  to  death 
than  looked  at  and  looked  at  every  mouth- 
ful I  eat.  I  don't  wonder  Peace  doesn't 
eat.     She'll  starve  to  death  some  day." 

"But  why  don't  you  send  her  down 
things? "  asked  Joy.     Gypsy  shook  her  head. 

"  You  don't  understand  Peace.  She  wouldn't 
like  it.  Mother  does  send  her  a  quantity  of 
books  and  flowers  and  things,  and  dinner 
just  as  often  as  she  can  without  making 
Peace  feel  badly.  But  Peace  wouldn't  like 
'em  every  day." 

145 


"  She's  real  different  from  what  I  thought," 
said  Joy — "real.  What  pretty  eyes  she  has. 
I  didn't  seem  to  remember  she  was  poor,  a 
bit." 

"What  made  you  come  down?" 

"  'Cause,"  said  Toy. 

This  excellent  reason  was  all  that  was  ever 
to  be  had  out  of  her.  But  that  first  time 
was  by  no  means 
the  last  she  went 
to  Peace  May- 
thorne's  room. 

The  girls  were 
in  good  spirits 
that  night,  well 
pleased  with  each 
other,  them- 
selves, and  every- 
body else,  as  is 
usually  the  case 
when  one  is  just 
over  a  fit  of  ill-  /Mf" 


.,^-fc- 


146 


temper.  When  they  were  alone  in  bed,  Gypsy 
told  Joy  about  the  verse  of  which  Peace  spoke. 
Joy  listened  in  silence. 

Awhile  after,  Gypsy  woke  from  a  dream, 
and  saw  a  light  burning  on  the  table.  Joy 
was  sitting  up  in  her  white  night-dress,  turn- 
ing the  leaves  of  a  book  as  if  she  were 
hunting  for  something. 


&■-,<*>'■ 


^ 


t&c 


&£^Kfc^ 


•of- 


OVEMBER,  with  its  bright,  bleak 
ylfef  skies,  sere  leaves  tossing,  sad  winds 
sobbing,  and  rains  that  wept  for  days 
and  nights  together,  on  dead  flowers  and 
dying  grasses,  moaned  itself  away  at  last,  and 
December  swept  into  its  place  with  a  good  rous- 
ing snow-storm,  merry  sleigh-bells,  and  bright 
promises  of  coming  Christmas.  The  girls 
coasted  and  skated,  and  made  snow-men  and 
snowballs  and  snow-forts.  Joy  learned  to 
slide  down  a  moderate  hill  at  a  mild  rate 
without  screaming,  and  to  get  along  some- 
i48 


how  on  her  skates  alone — for  the  very  good 
reason  that  Tom  wouldn't  help  her.  Gypsy 
initiated  her  into  the  mysteries  of  "cannon- 
firing"  from  the  great  icy  forts,  and  taught 
her  how  to  roll  the  huge  balls  of  snow. 
Altogether  they  had  a  very  good  time. 
Not  as  good  as  they  might  have  had,  by 
any  means;  the  old  rubs  and  jars  were 
there  still,  though  of  late  they  had  been 
somewhat  softened.  Partly  on  account  of 
their  talk  with  Peace;  partly  because  of  a 
certain  uncomfortable  acquaintance  called 
conscience;  partly  because  of  their  own  good 
sense,  the  girls  had  tacitly  made  up  their 
minds  at  least  to  make  an  effort  to  live  to- 
gether more  happily.  In  some  degree  they 
succeeded,  but  they  were  like  people  walking 
over  a  volcano;  the  trouble  was  not  quenched; 
it  lay  always  smoldering  out  of  sight,  ready 
at  a  moment's  notice  to  flare  up  into  angry 
flame.  The  fault  lay  perhaps  no  more  with 
one    than    another.     Gypsy    had    never    had    a 


sister,  and  her  brothers  were  neither  of  them 
near  enough  to  her  own  age  to  interfere  very 
much  with  her  wishes  and  privileges.  More- 
over, a  brother,  though  he  may  be  the  great- 
est tease  in  existence,  is  apt  to  be  easier  to 
get  along  with  than  a  sister  about  one's  own 
age.  His  pleasures  and  ambitions  run  in  dif- 
ferent  directions  from  the  girls  ;  there  is  less 
clashing  of  interests.  Besides  this,  Gypsy's 
playmates  in  Yorkbury,  as  has  been  said,  had 
not  chanced  to  be  girls  of  very  strong  wills. 
Quite  to  her  surprise,  since  Joy  had  been 
her  room-mate  and  constant  companion,  had 
she  found  out  that  she — Gypsy — had  been 
pretty  well  used  to  having  her  own  way, 
and  that  other  people  sometimes  liked  to 
have  theirs. 

.  As  for  Joy,  she  had  always  been  an  only 
child,  and  that  tells  a  history.  Of  the  two 
perhaps  she  had  the  more  to  learn.  The 
simple  fact  that  she  was  brought  wisely  and 
kindly,     but    tliorouglily,     under    Mrs.     Breyn- 


ton's  control,  was  decidedly  a  revelation  to 
her.  At  her  own  home,  it  had  always  been 
said,  from  the  time  she  was  a  baby,  that 
her  mother  could  not  manage  her,  and  her 
father  would  not.  She  rebelled  a  little  at 
first  against  her  aunt's  authority,  but  she 
was  fast  learning  to  love  her,  and  when  we 
love,  obedience  ceases  to  be  obedience,  and 
becomes   an    offering   freely   given. 

A  little  thing  happened  one  day,  showing 
that  sadder  and  better  side  of  Joy's  heart 
that  always  seemed  to  touch  Gypsy. 

They  had  been  having  some  little  trouble 
about  the  lessons  at  school;  it  just  verged 
on  a  quarrel,  and  slided  off,  and  they  had 
treated  each  other  pleasantly  after  it.  At 
night  Joy  was  sitting  upstairs  writing  a  let- 
ter to  her  father,  when  a  gust  of  wind  took 
the  sheet  and  blew  it  to  Gypsy's  feet. 
Gypsy  picked  it  up  to  carry  it  to  her,  and 
in  doing  so,  her  eyes  fell  accidentally  on 
some   large,    legible    words   at   the   bottom  of 


the  page.  She  had  not  the  slightest  inten- 
tion of  reading  them,  but  their  meaning 
came  to  her  against  her  will,  in  that  curi- 
ous way  we  see  things  in  a  flash  some- 
times.     This  was  what  she  saw: 

"  I    like    auntie   ever    so    much,    and   Tom. 

Gypsy  was  cross  this  morning.     She "  and 

then  followed  Joy's  own  version  of  the  morn- 
ing's dispute.  Gypsy  was  vexed.  She  liked 
her  uncle,  and  she  did  not  like  to  have  him 
hear  such  one-sided  stories  of  her,  and  judge 
her  as  he  would. 

She  walked  over  to  Joy  with  very  red 
cheeks. 

"  Here's  your  letter.  I  tried  not  to  read 
it,  but  I  couldn't  help  seeing  that  about 
me.  I  don't  think  you've  any  business  to 
tell  him  about  me  unless  you  can  tell  the 
truth." 

Of  course  Joy  resented  such  a  remark  as 
this,  and  high  words  followed.  They  went 
down  to  supper  sulkily,    and   said  nothing  to 


one  another  for  an  hour.  After  tea,  Joy 
crept  up  moodily  into  the  corner,  and  Gypsy 
sat  down  on  the  cricket  for  one  of  her 
merry  talks  with  her  mother.  After  she  had 
told  her  how  many  times  she  missed  at  school 
that  day,  what  a  funny  tumble  Sarah  Rowe 
had  on  the  ice,  and  laughed  over  ''Winnie's 
latest "  till  she  was  laughed  out  and  talked 
out  too,  she  sprang  into  her  lap,  in  one  of 
Gypsy's  sudden  outbursts  of  affection,  throw- 
ing her  arms  around  her  neck,  and  kissing 
her  on  cheeks,   forehead,   lips  and  chin. 

"  O-oh,  what  a  blessed  little  mother  you 
are!     What  should  I  do  without  you?" 

"Mother's  darling  daughter!  What  should 
she  do  without  you? "  said  Mrs.  Breynton, 
softly. 

But  not  softly  enough.  Gypsy  looked  up 
suddenly  and  saw  a  pale  face  peering  out 
at  them  from  behind  the  curtain,  its  great 
eyes  swimming  in  tears,  its  lips  quivering. 
The  next  minute  Joy  left  the  room. 


There  was  something  dim  in  Gypsy's  eyes 
as  she  hurried  after  her.  She  found  her 
crouched  upstairs  in  the  dark   and  cold,   sob- 


bing  as  if    her    heart    would    break.     Gypsy 
put  her  arm  around  her. 

"  Kiss  me,   Joy." 

Joy   kissed  her,    and   that  was   all   that  was 


said.  But  it  ended  in  Gypsy's  bringing  her 
triumphantly  downstairs,  where  were  the  lights 
and  the  fire,  and  the  pleasant  room,  and  an- 
other cricket  waiting  at  Mrs.  Breynton's  feet. 

They  were  very  busy  after  this  with  the 
coming  Christmas.  Joy  confidently  expected 
a  five-dollar  bill  from  her  father,  and  Gypsy 
cherished  faint  aspirations  after  a  portfolio 
with  purple  roses  on  it.  But  most  of  their 
thoughts,  and  all  their  energies,  were  occu- 
pied with  the  little  gifts  they  intended  to 
make  themselves;  and  herein  lay  a  difficulty. 
Joy's  father  always  supplied  her  bountifully 
with  spending  money;  Gypsy's  stock  was 
small.  When  Joy  wanted  to  make  a  present, 
she  had  only  to  ask  for  a  few  extra  dollars, 
and  she  had  them.  Gypsy  always  felt  as  if 
a  present  given  in  that  way  were  no  present; 
unless  a  thing  cost  her  some  self-denial,  or 
some  labor,  she  reasoned,  it  had  nothing  to 
do  with  her.  If  given  directly  out  of  her 
father's  pocket,   it  was  his  gift,  not  hers. 

'55 


But  then,  how  much  handsomer  Joy's 
things  would  be. 

Thus  Gypsy  was  thinking  in  her  secret 
heart,  over  and  over.  How  could  she  help 
it?  And  Joy,  perhaps — possibly — Joy  was 
thinking  the  same  thing,  with  a  spice  of 
pleasure  in  the  thought. 

It  was  about  her  mother  that  Gypsy  was 
chiefly  troubled.  Tom  had  condescendingly 
informed  her,  about  six  months  ago,  that 
he'd  just  as  lief  she  would  make  him  a 
watch-case  if  she  wanted  to  very  much. 
Girls  always  would  jump  at  the  chance  to  get 
up  any  such  nonsense.  Be  sure  she  did  it  up 
in  style,  with  gold  and  silver  tape,  and 
some  of  your  blue  alpaca.  (Tom's  concep- 
tions of  the  feminine  race,  their  apparel, 
occupations  and  implements,  were  bounded 
by  tape  and  alpaca.)  So  Tom  was  provided 
for;  the  watch-case  was  nearly  made,  and 
bade  fair  to  be  quite  as  pretty  as  anything 
Joy    could    buy.     Winnie    was    easily    suited, 


and  her  father  would  be  as  contented  with  a 
shaving-case  as  with  a  velvet  dressing-gown; 
indeed  he'd  hardly  know  the  difference.  Joy 
should  have  a  pretty  white  velvet  hair-ribbon. 
But  what  for  mother?  She  lay  awake  a 
whole  half  hour  one  night,  perplexing  her- 
self over  the  question,  and  at  last  decided 
rather  falteringly  on  a  photograph  frame  of 
shell-work.  Gypsy's  shell-work  was  always 
pretty,  and  her  mother  had  a  peculiar  fancy 
for  it. 

"/  shall  give  her  Whittier's  poems,"  said 
Joy,  in — perhaps  unconsciously,  perhaps  not 
—  a  rather  triumphant  tone.  "I  heard  her 
say  the  other  day  she  wanted  them  ever 
so  much.  I'm  going  to  get  the  best  copy 
I  can  find,  with  gold  edges.  If  uncle 
hasn't  a  nice  one  in  his  store,  I'll  send  to 
Boston.  Mr.  Ticknor'll  pick  me  out  the 
best  one  he  has,  I  know,  'cause  he  knows 
father  real  well,  and  we  buy  lots  of  things 
there." 


Gypsy    said    nothing.     She  was 
rather    abashed    to   hear  Joy  talk 
in    such     familiar    terms   of    Mr. 
Ticknor.     She  was  more  uneasy       < 
that  Joy  should  give  so  hand- 
some a  present.     She  sat 
looking    at    her   silently, 
and  while  she  looked,  a 
curious,     dull,    sickening 
pain  crept  into  her  heart. 
It  frightened  her,  and  she 
ran    away    downstairs   to 
get  rid  of  it. 

A  few  days  after,  she  was  sitting  alone  work- 
ing on  the  photograph  case.  It  was  rather 
pretty  work,  though  not  over-clean.  She 
had  cut  a  well-shaped  frame  out  of  paste- 
board, with  a  long,  narrow  piece  bent  back 
to  serve  as  support.  The  frame  was  cov- 
ered with  putty,  and  into  the  putty  she 
fastened  her  shells.  They  were  of  different 
sizes,  shapes,  and  colors,  and  she  was  laying 
15s 


hem  on  in  a  pretty  pattern  of  stars  and 
crescents.  She  had  just  stopped  to  look  at 
her  work,  her  red  lips  shut  together  with 
the  air  of  a  connoisseur,  and  her  head  on  one 
side,   like   a   canary,    when   Joy   came   in. 

"Just  look  here!"  and  she  held  up  be- 
fore her  astonished  eyes  a  handsome  volume 
of  blue  and  gold  —  Whittier's  poems,  and 
written  on  the  fly-leaf,  in  Joy's  very  best 
copy-book  hand,  "For  Auntie,  with  a  Merry 
Christmas,  from  Joy." 

"  Uncle  sent  to  Boston  for  me,  and  got  it, 
and  he  promised  on  his  word  'n'  honor,  cer- 
tain true,  black  and  blue,  he  wouldn't  let 
Auntie  know  a  single  sign  of  a  thing  about 
it.      Isn't  it   splendid?" 

"Ye-es,"said  Gypsy,  slowly. 

"Well!  I  don't  think  you  seem  to  care 
much." 

Gypsy  looked  at  her  shell-work,  and  said 
nothing.  For  the  second  time  that  dull,  curi- 
ous   pain    had    crept    into    her    heart.     What 


did   it  mean?     Was   it    possible    that   she    was 
envious   of   Joy?     Was  it  possible? 

The  hot  crimson  rushed  to  Gypsy's  cheeks 
for  shame  at  the  thought.  But  the  thought 
was  there. 

She  chanced  to  be  in  Peace  Maythorne's 
room  one  day  when  the  bustle  of  prepara- 
tion for  the  holidays  was  busiest.  Peace  hid 
something  under  the  counterpane  as  she 
came  in,  flushing  a  little.  Gypsy  sat  down 
in  her  favorite  place  on  the  bed,  just 
where  she  could  see  the  cripple's  great  quiet 
eyes — she  always  liked  to  watch  Peace  May- 
thorne's eyes — and  in  doing  so  disturbed 
the  bedclothes.  A  piece  of  work  fell  out: 
plain,  fine  sewing,  in  which  the  needle  lay 
with    a   stitch    partially    taken. 

"Peace  May  thorne !  "  said  Gypsy,  "you've 
been  doing  it  again ! " 

"  A  little,  just  to  help  aunt,  you  know. 
A   little    doesn't   hurt    me,    Gypsy." 

"Doesn't      hurt     you!     Peace,     you      know 


■~  "- 


better.  You  know  you  never  sew  a  stitch 
but  you  lie  awake  half  the  night  after  it 
with    the    pain." 

Peace  did  not  contradict  her.  She  could 
not. 

"Help  your  aunt!"  Gypsy  went  on  vehe- 
mently; "she  oughtn  .  fo  let  you  touch  it. 
She  hasn't  any  more  feeling  than  a  stone 
wall,    nor   half   as   much,    I    say!" 

"Hush,  Gypsy!  Don't  say  that.  Indeed 
I'd  rather  have  the  pain,  and  help  her  a 
little,  once  in  a  while,  when  my  best  days 
come  and  I  can;  I  had,  really,  Gypsy. 
You  don't  know  how  it  hurts  me — a  great 
deal  more  than  this  other  hurt  in  my  back 
— to  lie  here  and  let  her  support  me,  and 
I  not  do  a  thing.  O  Gypsy,  you  don't 
know !  " 

Something  in  Peace  Maythorne's  tone  just 
then  made  Gypsy  feel  worse  than  she  felt 
to  see  her  sew.  She  was  silent  a  minute, 
turning   away   her   face. 


''Well,  I  suppose  I  don't.  But  I  say  I'd 
as  lief  have  a  stone  wall  for  an  aunt;  no, 
I  will  say  it,  Peace,  and  you  needn't  look 
at  me."  Peace  looked,  notwithstanding,  and 
Gypsy    stopped    saying   it, 

"Sometimes  I've  thought,"  said  Peace, 
after  a  pause,  "I  might  earn  a  little  crochet- 
ing. Once,  long  ago,  I  made  a  mat  out  of 
ends  of  worsted  I  found,  and  it  didn't  hurt 
me  hardly  any;  on  my  good  days  it  wouldn't 
honestly  hurt  me  at  all.  It's  pretty  work, 
crocheting,   isn't  it?" 

"Why  don't  you  crochet,  then,"  said 
Gypsy,  "if  you  must  do  anything?  It's  ten 
thousand  times  easier  than  this  sewing  you're 
killing  yourself  over." 

"  I've  no  worsteds,  you  know,"  said  Peace, 
coloring;  and    changed    the    subject    at   once. 

Gypsy  looked  thoughtful.  Very  soon  after 
she  bade  Peace   good-bye,  and    went   home. 

That  night  she  called  her  mother  away 
alone,    and    told    her    what    Peace    had    said. 


"Now,  mother,  I've   thought   out  an  idea." 

"Well?" 

"  You  mustn't  say  no,  if  I  tell  you." 

"  I'll  try  not  to;  if  it  is  a  sensible  idea." 

"  Do  I  ever  have  an  idea  that  isn't  sensible?  " 
said  Gypsy,  demurely.  "  I  prefer  not  to  be 
slandered,  if  you  please,   Mrs.   Breynton." 

"Well,   but  what's  the  idea?" 

"  It's  just  this.  Miss  Jane  Maythorne  is  a 
heathen." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  No.  But  Miss  Jane  Maythorne  is  a 
heathen,  and  ought  to  cut  off  her  head  before 
she  lets  Peace  sew.  But  you  see  she  doesn't 
know  she's  a    heathen,   and    Peace  will    sew." 

"  Well,  what  then?" 

"  If   she   will    do   something,    and   won't   be 

happy    without,    then     I     can't    help    it,    you 

see.     But    I    can   give    her    some  worsteds  for 

a  Christmas   present,  and   she  can  make  little 

mats    and    things,    and    you    can    buy    them. 

Now,  mother,  isn't  that  nice?  " 
163 


"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  after  a  mo- 
ment's thought.  "It  is  a  very  good  plan. 
I  think  Joy  would  like  to  join  you.  To- 
gether, you  can  make  quite  a  handsome  pres- 
ent out  of  it." 

"  I  don't  want  Joy  to  know  a  thing  about 
it,"  said  Gypsy,  with  a  decision  in  her  voice 
that  amounted  almost  to  anger. 

"Why,  Gypsy  !  " 

"  No,  not  a  thing.  She  just  takes  her 
father's  money,  and  gives  lots  of  splendid 
presents,  and  makes  me  ashamed  of  all  mine, 
and  she's  glad  of  it,  too.  If  I'm  going  to 
give  anything  to  Peace,  I  don't  want  her  to." 

"  I  think  Joy  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to 
Peace.  She  would  enjoy  giving  her  some- 
thing very  much,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton, 
gravely. 

"  I  can't  help  it.  Peace  Maythorne  be- 
longs to  me.  It  would  spoil  it  all  to  have 
Joy  have  anything  to  do  with  it." 

''Worsted    are    very    expensive    now,"   said 
164 


her  mother;  "}7ou  alone  cannot  give  Peace 
enough    to    amount    to    much." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Gypsy,  resolutely,  "I 
want  to  do  one  thing  Joy  doesn't." 

Mrs.  Breynton  said  nothing,  and  Gypsy 
went  slowly  from  the  room. 

"  I  wish  we  could  give  Peace  Maythorne 
something,"  said  Joy,  an  hour  after,  when 
they  were  all  sitting  together.  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton raised  her  eyes  from  her  work,  but 
Gypsy  was  looking  out  of  the  window. 

When  the  girls  went  up  to  bed,  Gypsy 
was  very  silent.  Joy  tried  to  laugh  and 
plague  and  scold  her  into  talking,  but  it 
was  of  no  use.  Just  before  they  went  to 
sleep,  she  spoke  up  suddenly: 

"Joy,  do  you  want  to  give  something  to 
Peace   Maythorne?" 

"  Splendid!  "  cried  Joy,  jumping  up  in  bed 
to    clap    her  hands,  "what?" 

Gypsy  told  her  then  all  the  plan,  a  little 
slowly :  it  was  rather  hard. 

16s 


Perhaps  Joy  detected  the  hesitation  in  her 
tone.  Joy  was  not  given  to  detecting  things 
with  remarkable  quickness,  but  it  was  so 
plain  that  she  could  not  very  well  help  it. 

"I  don't  believe  you  want  me  to  give 
any  of  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Gypsy,  trying  to  speak 
cordially,    "yes,    it  will  be  better." 

It  certainly  was  better  she  felt.  She  went 
to    sleep,    glad    it    was    settled   so. 

When  the  girls  came  to  make  their  pur- 
chases, they  found  that  Gypsy's  contribution 
of  money  would  just  about  buy  the  crochet- 
needles  and  patterns.  The  worsteds  cost 
about  treble  what  she  could  give.  So  it 
was  settled  that  they  should  be  Joy's  gift. 

Gypsy  was  very  pleasant  about  it,  but  Joy 
could  not  help  seeing  that  she  was  disap- 
pointed. So  then  there  came  a  little  gener- 
ous impulse  to  Joy  too,  and  she  came  one 
day   and   said : 

"Gypsy,    don't   let's    divide    the    things    off 


so,  for  Peace.  It  makes  my  part  the  largest. 
Besides,  the  worsteds  look  the  prettiest.  Let's 
just  give  them  together  and  have  it  all  one." 

There  is  a  rare  pleasure  in  making  a  gift 
one's  self,  without  being  hampered  by  this 
"all-together"  notion,  isn't  there?  —  espe- 
cially if  the  gift  be  a  handsome  one,  and  is 
going  where  it  is  very  much  needed.  So  as 
Joy  sat  fingering  the  pile  of  elegant  worsteds, 
twining  the  brilliant,  soft  folds  of  orange, 
and  crimson,  and  royal  purple,  and  soft, 
wood-browns  about  her  hands,  it  cost  her  a 
bit  of  a  struggle  to  say  this.  It  seems 
rather  a  small  thing  to  write  about  ?  Ah, 
they  are  these  bits  of  struggles  in  which 
we  learn  to  fight  the  great  ones;  perhaps 
these  bits  of  struggles,  more  than  the  great 
ones,    make   up   life. 

"You're  real  good,"  said  Gypsy,  surprised; 

"I    think    I'd     rather    not.       It     isn";    really 

half    of   it    mine,    and    I     don't    war.,    to    say 

so.      But    it's   just    as    good    in  you." 
167 


At  that  moment,  though  neither  of  them 
knew  it  was  so,  one  thought  was  in  the 
heart  of  both.  It  was  a  sudden  thought 
that  came  and  went,  and  left  a  great  hap- 
piness in  its  place  (for  great  happiness 
springs  out  of  very  little  battles  and  vic- 
tories), —  a  memory  of  Peace  Maythorne's 
verse.  The  good  Christmas  time  would  have 
been  a  golden  time  to  them,  if  it  taught 
them  in  ever  so  small,  imperfect  ways,  to 
prefer   one    another    "in  honor." 

One  day  before  it  came  a  sudden  notion 
seemed  to  strike  Gypsy,  and  she  rushed  out 
of  the  house  fn  her  characteristic  style,  as 
if  she  were  running  for  her  life,  and  down 
to  Peace  Maythorne's,  and  flew  into  the 
quiet  room  like  a  tempest. 

"  Peace  Maythorne,  what's  your  favorite 
verse?  " 

"Why,  what  a  hurry  you're  in!  Sit  down 
and  rest  a  minute." 

"  No,   I  can't    stop.     I   just    want   to   know 

16S 


what  your  favorite  verse  is,  as  quick  as  ever 
you  can  be." 

"  Did  you  come  down  just  for  that?  How- 
queer!     Well,  let  me  see." 

Peace  stopped  a  minute,  her  quiet  eyes 
looking  off  through  the  window,  but  seem- 
ing to  see  nothing  —  away  somewhere,  Gypsy, 
even    in   her  hurry  stopped  to  wonder   where. 

"I  think  —  it  isn't  one  you'd  care  much 
about,  perhaps  —  I  think  I  like  this.  Yes, 
I    think  1  can't  help  liking   it  best  of  all." 

Peace  touched  her  finger  to  a  page  of  her 
Bible  that  lay  open.    Gypsy,  bending  over,  read : 

"And  the  inhabitants  shall  not  say  I  am  sick." 

When  she  had  read,  she  stooped  and 
kissed  Peace  with  a  sudden  kiss. 

From   that  time  until  Christmas  Gypsy  was 

very    busy   in  her    own    room    with    her  paint 

box,    all    the  spare    time    she  could    find.     On 

Christmas     Eve    she     went    down    just    after 

dusk   to    Peace  Maythorne's  room,    and  caH~d 

Miss  Jane  out  into   the  entry. 
169 


''This  is  for  Peace,  and  I  made  it.  I 
don't  want  her  to  see  a  thing  about  it  till 
she  wakes  up  in  the  morning.  Could  you 
please  to  fasten  it  up  on  the  wall  just  oppo- 
site the  bed  where  the  sun  shines  in?  some- 
time after  she's  gone   to  sleep,  you  know." 

Miss  Jane,  somewhat  bewildered,  took  the 
thing  that  Gypsy  held  out  to  her,  and  held 
it  up  in  the  light  that  fell  from  a  neigh- 
bor's half-open  door. 

It  was  a  large  illuminated  text,  painted  on 
Bristol  board  of  a  soft  gray  shade,  and  very 
well  done  for  a  non-professional  artist.  The 
letters  were  of  that  exquisite  shade  known 
by  the  artists  as  smalt  blue,  edged  heavily 
with  gold,  and  round  them  a  border  of  yel- 
low, delicate  sprays  of  wheat.  Miss  Jane 
spelled    out  in    German    text: 

"Jlnbtbc  fnbabitant?  jeball  not  sap  31  am  &icfc. 

"Well,  thank  you.  I'll  put  it  up.  Peace 
never   gets    asleep  till    terrible    late,    and    I'm 


rather  worn  out  with  work  to  lie  awake 
waitin'  till  she  is.  But  then,  if  you  want 
to  surprise  her  —  I  s'pose  she  will  be  dread- 
ful tickled — I  guess  I'll  manage  it  some- 
ways." 

Perhaps  Miss  Jane  was  softened  into  being 
obliging  by  her  coming  holiday;  or  perhaps 
the  mournful,  longing  words  touched  some- 
thing in  her  that  nothing  touched  very 
often. 

Gypsy  and  Joy  were  not  so  old  but  that 
Christmas  Eve  with  its  little  plans  for  the 
morrow  held  yet  a  certain  shade  of  that  de- 
lightful suspense  and  mystery  which  per- 
haps never  hangs  about  the  greater  and 
graver  joys  of  life.  I  fancy  we  drink  it  to 
the  full,  in  the  hanging  up  of  stockings,  the 
peering  out  into  the  dark  to  see  Santa 
Claus  come  down  the  chimney  (perfectly 
conscious  that  that  gentleman  is  the  most 
transparent  of  hoaxes,  but  with  a  sort  of 
faith  in  him   all  the  while;    we  may  see    him 


if  we  can  lie  awake  long  enough  —  who 
knows?)  the  falling  asleep  before  we  know 
it,  and  much  against  our  will,  the  waking 
in  the  cold,  gray,  mysterious  dawn,  and 
pattering  about  barefoot  to  "catch"  the 
dreaming  and  defenseless  family. 

"I'm  going  to  lie  awake  all  night,"  Gypsy 
announced,  as  she  stood  brushing  out  her 
bright,  black  hair;  "then  I'll  catch  you, 
you  see  if  I  don't." 

"But  I'm  going  to  lie  awake,  too,"  said 
Joy.  "I  was  going  to  last  Christmas,  only — 
I  didn't." 

"  Sit  up  and  see  the  sun  dance,  like 
Patty." 

"Well,  let's.  I  never  was  awake  all  night 
in  my  whole  life." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Gypsy.  "I  came  pretty 
near  it  once,  but  I  somehow  went  to  sleep 
along  at  the  end." 

"  When  was  that?  " 

"Why,   one  time  I   had  a  dream,  and  went 


clear  over  to  the  Kleiner  Berg  Basin,  in  my 
sleep,  and  got  into  the  boat." 

"You  did!" 

"  I  guess  I  did.  The  boat  was  unlocked 
and  the  oars  were  up  at  the  barn,  and  so  I 
floated  off,  and  there  I  had  to  stay  till  Tom 
came  in  the  morning." 

"  Why,  I  should  have  been  scared  out  of 
my  seventeen  senses,"  said  Joy,  creeping  into 
bed.      "Didn't  you   scream?" 

"No.  That  wouldn't  have  done  any  good. 
See  here,  Joy,  if  you  find  me  going  to 
sleep,   pinch  me,   will  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Joy,  with  alacrity.  "I 
shall  be  awake,    I  know." 

There  was  a  silence.  Gypsy  broke  it  by 
turning  her  head  over  on  the  pillow  with  a 
whisk,  and  opening  her  eyes  savagely,  quite 
indignant  to  find   them  shut. 

"Joy." 

No  answer. 

"Joy,   you're  going " 


Joy's  head  turned  over  with  another  whisk. 

"No,  I'm  not.  I'm  just  as  wide  awake  as 
ever  I  was." 

Another  silence. 

"Gypsy!" 

Gypsy  jumped. 

"  You  re  going  to  sleep.'' 

"It  isn't  any  such  thing,"  said  Gypsy,  sit- 
ting up  and  rubbing  her  eyes. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  isn't  most  morning,"  said 
Joy,  in  a  tone  of  cheerful  indifference. 

"Most  morning!  Mother'd  say  we'd  been 
in  bed  just  ten  minutes,   I  suppose." 

Joy  stifled  a  groan,  and  by  dint  of  great 
exertions  turned  it  into  a  laugh. 

"  All  the  longer  to  lie  awake.  It's  nice, 
isn't  it?" 

"Ye-es.  Let's  talk.  People  that  sit  up  all 
night  talk,   I  guess." 

"  Well,  I  guess  it  would  be  a  good  plan. 
You  begin." 

"I  don't  know  anything  to  say.' 


"Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't." 

Silence  again. 

"  Joy  Breynton." 

"  We-ell?" 

"  I  guess  I'll  keep  awake  just  as  well  if 
I — shut  up — my  eyes.     Don't  you — " 

That  was  the  end  of  Gypsy's  sentence,  and 
Joy  never  asked  for  the  rest  of  it.  Just 
about  an  hour  and  a  half  after,  Gypsy  heard 
a  noise,  and  was  somewhat  surprised  to  see 
Joy  standing  up  with  her  head  in  the  wash- 
bowl. 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"Oh,  just  dipping  my  head  into  the  water. 
They  say  it  helps  keep  people  awake." 

"Oh — well.  See  here;  we  haven't  talked 
much  lately,  have  we?" 

"  No.     I   thought  I  wouldn't  disturb    you." 

Gypsy  made  a  ghastly  attempt  to  answer, 
but  couldn't  quite  do  it. 

At  the  end  of  another  indefinite  period 
Joy  opened    her    eyes  under   the    remarkable 


impression  that  Oliver  Cromwell  was  carrying 
her  to  the  guillotine  in  a  cocoa-nut  shell;  it 
was  really  a  very  remarkable  impression,  con- 
sidering that  she  had  been  broad  awake 
ever  since  she  came  to  bed.  As  soon  as 
her  eyes  were  opened  she  opened  her  mouth 
likewise — to  gasp  out  a  little  scream.  For 
something  very  tall  and  white  was  sitting 
on  the  bedpost  with  folded  arms. 

"Why,    Gypsy    Breynton!" 

"What?" 

"What  are  you  up  there  for?" 

"  Got  up  so's  to  keep  awake.  It's  real 
fun." 

"Why,  how  your  teeth  chatter.  Isn't  it 
cold  up  there?" 

"  Ra-ther.  I  don't  know  but  I  might  as 
well  come  down." 

"  I  wonder,"  muttered  Gypsy,  drowsily, 
just  as  Joy  had  begun  in  very  thrilling 
words    to    request    Oliver    Cromwell    to   have 

mercy    on    her,    and    was   about    preparing    to 

176 


jump  out  of  the  cocoa-nut  shell  into  Niag- 
ara Falls,  "  I  wonder  what  makes  people 
think    it's    a   joke    to    lie    awake." 

"I  don't  believe  they  do,"  said  Joy,  with 
a  tinge  in  her  voice  of  something  that,  to 
say  the  least,   was  not  hilarious. 

"Yes  they  do,"  persisted  Gypsy;  "all  the 
girls  in  novels  lie  awake  all  night  and  cry 
when  their  lovers  go  to  Europe,  and  they 
have  a  real  nice  time.  Only  it's  most  always 
moonlight,  and  they  talk  out  loud.  I  always 
thought  when  I  got  large  enough  to  have  a 
lover,   I'd  try  it." 

Joy  dropped  into  another  dream,  and, 
though  not  of  interest  to  the  public,  it  was  a 
very  charming  dream,  and  she  felt  decidedly 
cross,  when,  at  the  end  of  another  unknown 
period    Gypsy    woke    her    up    with  a  pinch. 

"Merry    Christmas!  Merry    Christmas!" 

"  What  are  you  merry  Christmassing  for? 
That's  no  fair.  It  isn't  morning  yet.  Let 
me  alone." 


"Yes,  it  is  morning  too.  I  heard  the 
clock  strike  six  ever  so  long  ago.  Get  up 
and   build    the    fire." 

"I  don't  believe  it's  morning.  You  can 
build    it   yourself." 

"No,  it's  your  week.  Besides,  you  made 
me  do  it  twice  for  you  your  last  turn,  and 
I    shan't    touch    it.     Besides,    it    is   morning." 

Joy  rose  with  a  groan,  and  began  to 
fumble  for  the  matches.  All  at  once  Gypsy 
heard    a   very    fervent    exclamation. 

"What's    the    matter?" 

"The  old  thing's  tipped  over — every  sin« 
gle,   solitary  match!" 

Gypsy  began  to  laugh. 

"It's  nothing  to  laugh  at,"  chattered  Joy; 
"I'm  frozen  almost  to  death,  and  this  hor- 
rid   old    fire    won't    do    a    thing   but   smoke." 

Gypsy,  curled  up  in  the  warm  bed,  smoth- 
ered her  laugh  as  best  she  could,  to  see  Joy 
crouched  shivering  before  the  stove-door, 
blowing    away    frantically    at    the    fire,     her 


cheeks  puffed  out,  her  hands  blue  as  in- 
digo. 

"There!"  said  Joy,  at  last;  "I  shan't 
work  any  more  over  it.  It  may  go  out  if 
it    wants    to,    and    if   it    don't    it   needn't." 

She  came  back  to  bed,  and  the  fire  mut- 
tered and  sputtered  a  while,  and  died  out, 
and  shot  up  again,  and  at  last  made  up  its 
mind  to  burn,  and  burned  like  a  small  volcano. 

"What  a  noise  that  fire  makes!  I  hope  it 
won't  wake  up  mother.  Joy,  don't  it  strike  you 
as  rather  funny  it  doesn't  grow  light  faster? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Get  up  and  look  at  the  entry  clock; 
you're    on    the    front    side." 

Poor  Joy  jumped  out  shivering  into  the 
cold  again,  opened  the  door  softly,  and  ran 
out.  She  came  back  in  somewhat  of  a 
hurry,    and   shut   the   door   with    a   bang. 

"  Gypsy  Breynton !  " 

"What?" 

"  If  I  ever  forgive  you!" 


"  What  is  the  matter?  " 

"  It's  just  twenty- five  minutes  past 
eleven!  " 

Gypsy  broke  into  a  ring- 
ing laugh.  Joy  could 
never  bear  to  be  laughed 
at. 

"/don't    see  anything 

so    terrible    funny,   and    I 

guess    you    wouldn't    if 

you'd  made  that  old — " 

"Fire;     I    know   it.       Just  'i| 

ii 
to   think! — and  you  shivering  /' 

and   blowing    away    at    it.      I    x 

never     heard     anything     so     funny !  " 

"I     think     it    was    real     mean     in    you    to 
wake   me    up,    any   way." 

"Why,    I    thought   I    heard   it   strike  six  as 
much    as   could  be.     Oh,   dear,  oh,  dear  !" 
.     Joy   couldn't   see    the   joke.     But   the   story 
of   that     memorable    night    was   not    yet   fin- 
ished. 


The  faint,  gray  morning  really  came  at 
last,  and  the  girls  awoke  in  good  earnest, 
ready    and   glad    to  get    up. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I'd  been  pulled  through  a 
knothole,''  said  Joy. 

"  I  slept  with  one  eye  open  all  the  time 
I  did  sleep,"  said  Gypsy,  drearily.  "  I  know 
one  thing.  I'll  never  try  to  lie  awake  as 
long  as  I  live." 

"Not  when  you  have  a  lover  go  to 
Europe? " 

"  Not  if  I  have  a  dozen  lovers  go  to 
Europe.  How  is  that  fire  going  to  be  built, 
I'd  like  to  know? — every  stick  of  wood  burned 
out    last    night." 

There  was  no  way  but  to  go  down  into 
the  wood-shed  and  get  some.  It  was  yet 
early,    and    quite    dark. 

"Go  the  back  stairs,"  said  Gypsy,  "  so's 
not  to  wake  people  up." 

Joy  opened  the  door,  and  jumped,  with  a 
scream   that  echoed  through    the  silent  entry. 


"Hush-sh!     What   is  the  matter?" 

**A —  a — it's  a  gJiost!" 

"A  ghost!      Nonsense!" 

Gypsy  pushed  by  trembling  Joy  and  ran 
out.  She,  too,  came  back  with  a  jump,  and, 
though  she  did  not  scream,  she  did  not  say 
nonsense. 

"  What  can  it  be?" 

It  certainly  did  look  amazingly  like  a 
ghost.  Something  tall  and  white  and  ghastly, 
with  awful  arm  extended.  The  entry  was 
very  dark. 

Joy  sprang  into  bed  and  covered  up  her 
face  in  the  clothes.  Gypsy  stood  still  and 
winked  fast  for  about  a  minute.  Then  Joy 
heard  a  fall  and  a  bubbling  laugh. 

"That  old  Tom!  It's  nothing  but  a  broom- 
handle  and  a  sheet.  Oh,  Joy,  just  come  and 
see!  " 

After  that,  Joy  declared  she  wouldn't  go 
to  the  wood-shed  alone,  if  she  dressed  with- 
out   a    fire  the    rest  of     her    life.     So    Gypsy 


started  with  her,  and  they  crept  down-stairs 
on  tiptoe,  holding  their  very  breath  in  their 
efforts  to  be  still,  the  stairs  creeking  at 
every  step.  Did  you  ever  particularly  want 
stairs  to  keep  still,  that  they  didn't  creak 
like  thunder-claps? 

The  girls  managed  to  get  into  the  wood- 
shed, fill  their  basket,  and  steal  back  into 
the  kitchen  without  mishap.  Then  came  the 
somewhat  dubious  undertaking  of  crawling 
up-stairs  in  darkness  that  might  be  felt,  with 
a  heavy  and  decidedly  uncertain  load  of  wood. 

"  I'll  go  first  and  carry  the  basket,"  said 
Gypsy.      "  One  can  do  it  easier  than  two." 

So  she  began  to  feel  her  way  slowly  up. 

"It's  black  as  Egypt!  Joy,  why  don't 
you    come?  " 

"I'm  caught  on  something — oh!"  Down 
fell  something  with  an  awful  crash  that 
echoed  and  reechoed,  and  resounded  through 
the  sleeping  house.  It  was  succeeded  by  an 
utter   silence. 

183 


*'  What   is   it  ?  "  breathed  Gypsy,  faintly. 

' '  The  clothes-horse,  and  every  one  of  Patty's 
clean  clothes  !  " 

Scarcely  were  the  words  off  from  Joy's 
lips,  when  Gypsy,  sitting  down  on  the  stairs 
to  laugh,  tipped  over  her  basket,  and  every 
solitary  stick  of  that  wood  clattered  down 
the  uncarpeted  stairs,  thumped  through  the 
banisters,  bounced  on  the  floor,  rolled  into 
the  corners,  thundered  against  the  cellar  door. 
I  don't  believe  you  ever  heard  such  a  noise 
in    all    your   life. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Breynton  ran  from  one  di- 
rection, Tom  from  another,  Winnie  from  a 
third,  and  Patty,  screaming,  in  fearful  disJia- 
bille,  from  the  attic,  and  the  congress  that 
assembled  in  that  entry  where  sat  Gypsy 
speechless  on  one  stair,  and  Joy  on  another, 
the    power    fails    me    to    describe. 

But  this  was  the  end  of  that  Christmas 
night. 

It    should    be    recorded    that   the    five-dollar 


bill  and  the  portfolio  with  purple  roses  on 
it  were  both  forthcoming  that  day,  and  that 
Gypsy  entirely  forgot  any  difference  between 
her  own  little  gifts  and  Joy's.  This  was 
partly  because  she  had  somehow  learned  to 
be  glad  in  the  difference,  if  it  pleased  Joy; 
partly  because  of  a  certain  look  in  her 
mother's  eyes  when  she  saw  the  picture- 
frame.  Such  a  look  made  Gypsy  happy  for 
days    together. 

That  Christmas  was  as  merry  as  Christmas 
can  be,  but  the  best  part  of  it  all  was  the 
sight  of  Peace  Maythorne's  face  as  she  lay 
twining  the  gorgeous  worsteds  over  her  thin 
fingers,  the  happy  sunlight  touching  their 
colors  of  crimson,  and  royal  purple,  and 
orange,  and  woodland  brown,  just  as  kindly 
as  it  was  touching  the  new  Christmas  jewels 
over  which  many  another  young  girl  in 
many  another  home  sat  laughing  that  morn- 
ing. 

But  Gypsy  long  remembered — she  remem- 
185 


bers  now  with  dim  eyes  and  quivering 
smile — how  Peace  drew  her  face  down  softly 
on  the  pillow,  pointing  to  the  blue  and 
golden  words  upon  the  wall,  and  said  in  a 
whisper    that    nobody    else    heard: 

"That    is    best    of    all.     Oh,    Gypsy,    when 
I    woke    up    in    the    morning   and   found   it ! " 


186 


SHOULD  think  we  might,  I'm  sure," 
said  Joy  pausing,  with  a  crisp  bit  of 
halibut  on  her  fork,  just  midway  be- 
tween her  plate  and  her  lips. 
"  You  needn't  shake  your  head  so,  Mother 
Breynton,"  said  Gypsy,  her  great  brown 
eyes  pleading  over  her  tea-cup  with  their 
very  most  irresistible  twinkle.  "  Now  it 
isn't  the  slightest  trouble  to  say  yes,  and 
you  can  just  as  well  say  it  now  as  anj' 
other   time,  you  know." 

"  But   it    really   seems    to    me    a   little    dan- 
187 


gerous,  Gypsy,  —  up  over  those  mountain 
roads    on   livery-stable   horses." 

"But  Tom  says  it  isn't  a  bit  dangerous, 
and  Tom's  been  up  it  forty  times.  Rattle- 
snake has  the  best  roads  of  any  of  the 
mountains  round  here,  and  there  are  fences 
by  all  the  precipices,  Tom  said,  didn't  you, 
Tom?" 

"  No,"  said  Tom,  coolly.  "  There  isn't  a 
fence.  There  are  logs  in  some  places,  and 
in    some    there   aren't.". 

"Oh,  what  a  bother  you  are!  Well,  c.ny 
way  it's  all  the  same,  and  I'm  not  a  bit 
afraid  of  stable  horses.  I  can  manage  any 
of  them,  from  Mr.  Burt's  iron-gray  colt 
down,"  which  was  true  enough.  Gypsy  was 
used   to    riding,    and   perfectly   fearless. 

"  But  Joy  hasn't  ridden  much,  and  I 
should  never  forgive  myself  if  any  accident 
.happened    to   her   while    her   father  is   gone." 

"Joy  can  ride  Billy.  There  isn't  a  cow 
in    York  bury    safer." 


Mrs.   Breynton   sipped  her  tea  and  thought 

about    it. 

"  I  want  to  go  horse-backing,  too,"  put  in 
Winnie,  glaring  savagely  at  Gypsy  over  his 
bread    and   milk.      "  I'm    five    years   old." 

"And  jerked  six  whole  buttons  oft"  your 
jacket  this  very  day,"  said  Gypsy,  eyeing 
certain  gaps  of  which  there  were  always 
more  or  less  to  be  seen  in  Winnie's  attire 
in  spite  of  his  mother's  care.  "A  boy  who 
jerks  buttons  like  that  couldn't  go  '  horse- 
backing.'  You  wouldn't  have  one  left  by  the 
time  you  came  home,  —  look  out,  you'll  have 
your  milk  over.  You  tipped  it  over  times 
enough    this    morning    for    one   day." 

"  You  will  have  your  milk  over;  don't 
stand  the  mug  up  on  the  napkin-ring,  —  no, 
nor  on  that  crust  of  bread,  either,"  repeated 
his  mother,  and  everybody  looked  up  anx- 
iously, and  edged  away  a  little  from  Winnie's 
immediate  vicinity.  This  young  gentleman 
had   a  pleasing  little   custom   of   deluging  the 


united  family  at  meal-time,  at  least  once 
regularly  every  day,  with  milk  and  bread- 
crumbs; maternal  and  paternal  injunctions, 
threats,  and  punishments  notwithstanding,  he 
contrived  every  day  some  perfectly  novel, 
ingenious,  and  totally  unexpected  method  of 
accomplishing  the  same;  uniting,  in  his 
efforts,  the  strategy  of  a  Napoleon,  with  the 
unruffled    composure   of  a    Grant. 

."  I  don't  know  but  what  I'll  see  what 
father  thinks  about  it,"  Mrs.  Breynton  went 
on,  thoughtfully.  "  If  he  should  be  will- 
ing — " 

"Good,  good!"  cried  Gypsy,  clapping  her 
hands.  "  Father's  in  the  library  Winnie, 
you  run  up  and  ask  him  if  we  can't  go  up 
Rattlesnake." 

"Well,"  said  Winnie,  "when  I  just  get 
through  eatin'.  I'm  goin'  to  make  him  let 
me  horseback  as  much  as  you  or  anybody 
else." 

Winnie    finished  his    toast    with  imperturba- 


ble  deliberation,    pushed   back   his  chair,    and 
jumped   up. 

Splash!    went    a   shower   of    milk    all    over 
him,    his   mother,    the    table,    and   the  carpet. 


WJ     w 


Everybody  jumped.     Winnie  gasped  and  stood 
dripping. 

"  Oh-oh !  how    did  he  do  it?     Why,  Winnie 
Breynton  !  " 


For  there  hung  the  mug  from  his  waist, 
empty,    upside    down,    tied  to   his   bib. 

"In  a  hard  knot,  if  you'll  believe  it!  I 
never  saw  such  a  child  in  all  my  life !  Why, 
Winnie  !  " 

The  utter  blankness  of  astonishment  that 
crept  over  Winnie's  face  when  he  looked 
down  and  saw  the  mug  hanging,  Mr.  Dar- 
ley  might  have  made  a  small  fortune  out 
of;  but  the  pen  of  a  Cicero  could  not  at- 
tempt it.  It  appeared  to  be  one  of  those 
cases  when  "  the  heart  feels  most  though 
the   lips   move   not." 

"  What  did  you  do  such  a  thing  for  ? 
What    could   possess   you  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Winnie,  very  red  in  the  face, 
"it's  there,  is  it  ?  I  was  a  steamboat,  and 
the  mug  was  my  stove-pipe,  'n  then  I  for- 
got. I  want  a  clean  apron.  I  don't  want 
any    milk    to-morrer." 

This  was  in  the  early  summer.  The  holi- 
days   had    come    and    gone,    and    the   winter 


and  the  spring.  Coasting,  skating,  and  snow- 
balling had  given  place  to  driving  hoop, 
picking  flowers,  boating,  and  dignified  prom- 
enades on  the  fashionable  pavement  down 
town;  furs  and  bright  woolen  hoods,  tippets, 
mittens,  and  rubber-boots  were  exchanged  for 
calico  dresses,  comfortable,  brown,  bare 
hands,  and  jaunty  straw  hats  with  feathers 
on  them.  On  the  whole,  it  had  been  a 
pleasant  winter:  times  there  had  been  when 
Gypsy  heartily  wished  Joy  had  never  come, 
when  Joy  heartily  wished  she  were  at  home; 
certain  little  jealousies  there  had  been,  sel- 
fish thoughts,  unkind  acts,  angry  words;  but 
many  penitent  hours  as  well,  some  confes- 
sions, the  one  to  the  other,  that  nobody  else 
heard,  and  a  certain  faint,  growing  interest 
in  each  other.  Strictly  speaking,  they  did 
not  very  much  love  each  other  yet,  but  they 
were  not  far  from  it.  "I  am  getting  used 
to  Joy  "  said  Gypsy.  "  I  like  Gypsy  ever 
so   much    better  than  I    did  once,"  Joy   wrote 


to  her  father.  One  thing  they  had  learned 
that  winter.  Every  generous  deed,  every 
thoughtful  word,  narrowed  the  distance  be- 
tween them;  each  one  wiped  out  the  ugly 
memory  of  some  past  impatience,  some  past 
unkindness.  And  now  something  was  about 
to  happen  that  should  bring  them  nearer  to 
each    other    than   anything   had    done    yet. 

That  June  night  on  which  they  sat  at  the 
tea-table  discussing  the  excursion  up  Rattle- 
snake was  the  beginning  of  it.  When  Win- 
nie was  sufficiently  mopped  up  to  admit  of 
his  locomotion  about  the  house  with  any 
safety  to  the  carpets,  he  was  dispatched  to 
the  library  on  the  errand  to  his  father. 
What  with  various  wire-pullings  of  Gypsy's, 
and  arguments  from  Tom,  the  result  was 
that  Mr.  Breynton  gave  his  consent  to  the 
plan,  on  condition  that  the  young  people 
would  submit  to  his  accompanying  them. 

''That's  perfectly  splend,"  cried  Gypsy; 
"  all    the    better   for    having   you.     Only,    my 


best  beloved  of  fathers,  you  mustn't  keep 
saying,  '  Gypsy,  Gypsy,  be  careful,'  you 
know,  every  time  my  horse  jumps,  because 
if  you  should,   I'm  very  much  afraid." 


"Afraid  of  what?" 

"That    Gypsy   wouldn't    be    careful,"    said 
the  young  lady,  folding  her  hands  demurely. 


Her  father  attempted  to  call  her  a  sauce- 
box, but  Gypsy  jumped  upon  his  knee,  and 
pulled  his  whiskers  till  he  cried  out  for 
mercy,   and  gave  her  a  kiss  instead. 

There  was  an  undercurrent  of  reality  in 
the  fun,  however.  Mr.  Breynton's  over-anx- 
iety— fussiness,  some  people  would  have  called 
it — his  children  were  perfectly  conscious  of; 
children  are  apt  to  be  the  first  to  discover 
their  parents'  faults  and  weaknesses.  Gypsy 
loved  her  father  dearly,  but  she  somehow 
always  felt  as  if  he  must  be  managed. 

So  it  came  about  that  on  a  certain  royal 
June  day,  a  merry  party  started  for  a  horse- 
back ride  up  Rattlesnake  mountain. 

"  I've  a  good  mind  to  take  my  waterproof," 
said  Joy,  as  they  were  starting;  "we  may 
not  be  back  till  late,  and  you  know  how  cold 
it  grows  by  the  river  after  dark." 

"Nonsense!"  laughed  Gypsy;  "why,  tbe 
thermometer's  So°  already." 

Nevertheless,    Joy   went    back   and   got   the 

196 


waterproof.     She   afterwards  had   occasion   to 
be  very  glad  of  it. 

The  party  consisted  of  Mr.  Breynton,  Tom, 
Joy,  Gypsy,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hallam  (this  was 
the  Mrs.  Hallam  who  had  once  been  Gypsy's 
teacher),  Sarah  Rowe,  and  her  brother  Fran- 
cis, who  was  home  from  college  on  account 
of  ill  health,  he  said.  Tom  always  coughed 
and  arched  his  eyebrows  in  a  very  peculiar 
way  when  this  was  mentioned,  but  Gypsy 
could  never  find  out  what  he  did  it  for. 

The  day,  as  I  said,  was  royal.  The  sky, 
the  river,  the  delicate  golden  green  of  the 
young  leaves  and  grass,  the  lights  and  shadows 
on  the  distant  mountains,  all  were  mellowed 
in  together  like  one  of  Church's  pictures,  and 
there  was  one  of  those  spicy  winds  that  Gypsy 
always  described  by  saying  that  "  the  angels 
had  been  showering  great  bottles  of  fresh 
cologne-water  into  them." 

The  young  people  felt  these  things  in  a 
sort   of    dreamy,    unconscious   way,    but    they 


were  too  busy  and  too  merry  to  notice  them 
in  detail. 

Joy  was  mounted  safely  on  demure  Billy, 
and  Gypsy  rode — not  Mr.  Burt's  iron-gray, 
for  Tom  claimed  that — but  a  free,  though 
manageable  pony,  with  just  the  arch  of  the 
neck,  toss  of  the  mane,  and  coquettish  lifting 
of  the  feet  that  she  particularly  fancied.  The 
rest  were  variously  mounted:  Francis  Rowe 
rode  a  fiery  colt  that  his  father  had  just 
bought,  and  the  like  of  which  was  not  to 
be  seen  in  Yorkbury. 

Up — up,  winding  on  and  away,  through 
odors  of  fragrant  pines  and  unseen  flowers, 
under  the  soft,  green  shadows,  through  the 
yellow  lights.  How  beautiful — how  beautiful 
it   was ! 

"Who'll  race  with  me?"  inquired  Mr. 
Francis  Rowe  suddenly.  "  I  call  it  an  uncom- 
mon bore,  this  doing  nothing  but  looking  at 
the  trees.  I  say,  Breynton,  the  slope's  easy 
here  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile;  come  ahead." 


"No,  thank  you;  I  don't  approve  of  racing 
up  mountains." 

Tom  might  have  said  he  didn't  approve  of 
being  beaten;  the  iron-gray  was  no  match  for 
the  colt,  and  he  knew  it. 

"Who'll  race?"  persisted  Mr.  Francis,  im- 
patiently;  "isn't  there  anybody?" 

"  I    will,"'  said    Gypsy,    seriously  enough. 

"You!"  said  Tom;  "why,  the  colt  would 
leave  that  bay  mare  out  of  sight  before 
you    could   say    Jack    Robinson." 

"Oh,  I  don't  expect  to  beat.  Of  course 
that's  out  of  the  question.  But  I  should  like 
the  run;  where's  the  goal,   Francis?" 

"  That  turn  in  the  road  where  the  tall  fir-tree 
is,    with    those    dead   limbs;  you  see?" 

"Yes.     We'll    trot,   of    course.     All   ready." 

"Be  very  careful,  Gypsy,"  called  her 
father,  nervously;  "I'm  really  almost  afraid 
to  have  you  go.  You  might  come  to  the 
precipice  sooner  than  you  expect,  and  then 
the  horse  may  shy." 


"  I'll  be  careful  father;  come,  Nelly, 
gently — whe-ee !  " 

Suddenly  reflecting  that  it  was  not  supposed 
to  be  ladylike  to  whistle,  Gypsy  drew  her 
lips  into  a  demure  pucker,  touched  Nelly 
with  the  tassel  of  her  whip,  and  flew  away 
up  the  hill  on  a  brisk  trot.  Mr.  Francis  con- 
descendingly checked  the  full  speed  of  the 
colt,  and  they  rode  on  pretty  nearly  side  by 
side. 

"  I'm  afraid,  in  justice  to  my  horse,  I 
must  really  come  in  first,"  began  Mr.  Francis, 
loosening   his  rein  as  they  neared  the  fir-tree. 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Gypsy,  with  a 
twinkle  in  her  eyes;  "I  didn't  undertake  to 
beat." 

Now  Nelly  had  a  trick  with  which  Gypsy 
was  perfectly  familiar,  of  breaking  into  a 
run  at  an  instant's  notice,  if  she  were 
pinched  in  a  certain  spot  on  her  neck. 
Suddenly,  while  the  colt  was  springing  on  in 
his  fleet  trot,  and  Mr.  Francis  supposed  Gypsy 


was  a  full  eight  feet  behind,  he  was  utterly 
confounded  to  see  her  flying-  past  him  on  a 
bounding  gallop,  her  hair  tossing  in  the 
wind,  her  cheeks  scarlet,  her  eyes  triumphant. 

But  right  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  be- 
tween them  and  the  fir-tree,  was  something 
neither  of  them  had  seen; — a  huge  tree  just 
fallen,  with  its  high,   prickly  branches  on. 

"Jerusalem!"  said  Mr.  Francis,  under  his 
breath  as  the  colt  pricked  up  his  ears 
ominously. 

"Oh,  good!  here's  a  jump,"  cried  Gypsy, 
and  over  it  she  went  at  a  bound.  The  colt 
reared  and  shied,  and  planting  his  dainty  fore- 
feet firmly  on  the  ground,  refused  to  stir 
an  inch.  Gypsy  whirled  around  and  stood 
triumphant  under  the  fir-tree,  her  eyes  snap- 
ping merrily. 

"Why,  how  did  this  ever  happen?"  cried 
the  rest,   as  they  came  laughing  up. 

,-<I  say,  there's  some  witchcraft  about  this 
business,"  remarked  Mr.   Francis,  quite  bewil- 


dered;  "wait  till  I've  cleared  off  these 
branches,    and    we'll    try   that    over    again." 

"Very  well,"  said  Gypsy,  in  a  perfect 
whirl  of  excitement  and  delight,  as  she 
always  was,  with  anything  in  the  shape  of 
reins  in  her  hand.  But  just  then  she  looked 
back  and  saw  Joy  toiling  on  slowly  behind 
the  others;  Billy  with  his  head  hanging  and 
his  spirits  quite  gone.  Gypsy  stopped  a 
moment  as  if  in  thought,  and  then  rode 
slowly    down    the   hill. 

"I'm  having  a  horrid  time,"  said  Joy 
disconsolately,  as  she  came  up;  "  Billy  is  as 
stupid   as   a   mule,    and   won't  go." 

"I'm  real  sorry,"  said  Gypsy,  slowly;  '  you 
might   have   Nelly.     We'll  change  awhile." 

"No,"  said  Joy,  "I'm  afraid  of  Nelly. 
Besides,  you  wouldn't  like  Billy  any  better 
than  I  do.  It's  dreadfully  stupid  back  here 
alone,    though.     I  wish  I  hadn't  come." 

"  Francis,"  called  Gypsy,  "  I  guess  I  won't 
race.     I'm   going   to    ride   with    Joy   awhile." 


"Why,  you  needn't  do  that!"  said  Joy, 
rather  ashamed  of  her  complaining".  But 
Gypsy  did  do  it;  and  though  her  face  had 
clouded  for  the  moment,  a  sunbeam  broke 
over  it  then  that  lasted  the  rest  of  the 
day. 

The  day  passed  very  much  like  other 
picnics.  They  stopped  in  a  broad,  level 
place  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  tied 
the  horses  where  they  could  graze  on  the 
long,  tufted  wood-grass,  unpacked  the  dinner 
baskets,  and  devoted  themselves  to  buscuit 
and  cold  tongue,  tarts,  lemonade  and  current 
wine,  through  the  lazy,  golden  nooning. 

It  was  voted  that  they  should  not  attempt 
the  long,  hot  ride  down  the  mountain-side 
until  the  blaze  of  the  afternoon  sun  should 
be  somewhat  cooled.  So,  after  dinner  they 
went  their  several  ways,  finding  amusement 
for  the  sultry  hours.  Mr.  Breynton  and  Tom 
went  off  on  a  hunt  after  a  good  place  to 
water  the  horses;    Francis  Rowe    betook   him- 


self  to  a  cigar;  Sarah  curled  herself  up  on 
the  soft  moss  with  her  sack  for  a  pillow,  and 
went  to  sleep;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hallam  sat  un- 
der the  trees  and  read  Tennyson  to  each  other. 

"  How  terribly  stupid  that  must  be,"  said 
Gypsy,  looking  on  in  supreme  disgust ; 
"let's  you  and  I  go  off.  I  know  a  place 
where  there  used  to  be  some  splendid  fox- 
berry  blossoms,  lot's  of  'em,  real  pretty; 
they  looked  just  as  if  they  were  snipped 
out  of    pearls  with    a  pair    of   sharp    scissors." 

i4I  wouldn't  go  out  of  sight  of  us  all," 
called  Mr.  Breynton,  as  the  two  girls  roamed 
away   together  among  the  trees. 

"  But  you  are  most  out  of  sight  now," 
said  Joy,   presently. 

"  Oh,  he  didn't  say  we  mustn't"  an- 
swered Gypsy.  "  He  didn't  mean  we  mustn't, 
either.     Father  always  worries  so." 

It  would  have  been  well  for  Gypsy  if  her 
father's  wish  had  been  to  her  what  her 
mother's  was — as  binding  as  a  command. 


"  Just  think,"  observed  Gypsy,  as  they 
strolled  on  through  the  fallen  leaves  and  red- 
cup  mosses,  "just  think  of  their  sitting  still 
and  reading  poetry  on  a  picnic !  I  can't  get 
over  it.  Miss  Melville  didn't  used  to  do 
such  stupid  things.  It's  just  'cause  she's 
married." 

"How  do  you  know  but  you'll  do  just  the 
same  some  day?  " 

"Catch  me!  I'm  not  going  to  be  married 
at  all." 

"Not  going  to  be  married!  Why,  I  am, 
and  I'm  going  to  have  a  white  velvet  dress 
too." 

Well,  you  may.  But  I  wouldn't  for  a 
whole  trunkful  of  white  velvet  dresses  —  no, 
I  wouldn't  for  two  dozen  trunkfuls.  I'm  not 
going  to  stay  home  and  keep  house,  and 
look  sober,  with  my  hair  done  up  behind. 
I'd  rather  be  an  old  maid,  and  have  a  pony 
and   run  round  in  the  woods." 

"Why,     I     never   saw    such    a    girl!"     ex- 

205 


claimed  Joy,  opening  her  small  eyes  wide; 
"  I  wouldn't  be  an  old  maid  for  anything. 
I'm  going  to  be  married  in  St.  Paul's,  and 
I'm  going  to  have  my  dress  all  caught  up 
with  orange  buds,  and  spangles  on  my  veil. 
Therese  and  I,  we  planned  it  all  out  one 
night  — Therese  used  to  be  my  French  nurse, 
you  know." 

For  answer,  Gypsy  threw  herself  down 
suddenly  on  the  velvet  moss,  her  eyes  turned 
up  to  the  far,  hazy  sky,  showing  in  patches 
through  a  lace  work  of    thousands  of    leaves. 

"Joy,"  she  said,  breaking  a  silence,  and 
speaking  in  a  curious,  earnest  tone  Gypsy  sel- 
dom used,  "I  do  really,  though,  sometimes 
go  off  alone  where  there  are  some  trees,  and 
wonder." 

"  Wonder  what?" 

"  What  in  this  world  I  was  ever  made  for. 
I  suppose  there's  got  to  be  a  reason." 

"A  reason!"  said  Joy,  blankly. 

"  There's  got   to  be  something  done,  for  all 


I  see.  God  doesn't  make  people  live  on  and 
on  and  die,  for  nothing-.  One  can't  be  a  little 
girl   all  one's  life,  climbing  trees  and  making 


snowballs,"    said    Gypsy,    half    dreamily,    half 
impatiently,  jumping  up  and  walking  on. 

So  they  wandered  away  and  away,  deeper 
into  the  heart  of  the  forest,  through  moss  and 
tufted  grasses,  and  tangles  of  mountain  flowers, 


chatting  as  girls  will,  in  their  silly,  merry 
way,  with  now  and  then  a  flash  of  graver 
thought  like  this  of  Gypsy's. 

"You're  sure  you  know  the  way  back," 
said  Joy,  presently. 

"  Oh,  yes;  I've  been  over  it  forty  times. 
We've  turned  about  a  good  many  times,  but 
I  don't  think  we've  gone  very  far  from  the 
top  of  the   mountain." 

So,  deeper,  and  further,  and  on,  where  the 
breath  of  the  pines  was  sweet ;  where  hidden  blos- 
soms were  folding  their  cups  for  the  night,  and 
the  shadows  in  the  thickets  were  growing  gray. 

"Gypsy!"  said  Joy,  suddenly,  "we're  cer- 
tainly going  down  hill!" 

"So  we  are,"  said  Gypsy,  thoughtfully; 
"it's  getting  dark,  too.  They'll  be  ready  to 
start  for  home.     I  guess  we'll  go  back  now." 

They  turned  then,  and  began  rapidly  to 
retrace  their  steps,  over  brambles  and  stones 
and  fallen  trees;  through  thickets,  and  up 
projecting  rocks — very  rapidly. 


"It  is  growing  dark,"  said  Gypsy,  half  un- 
der her  breath;  "why  didn't  we  find  it  out 
before? " 

"Gypsy,"  said  Joy,  after  a  silence,  "do  you 
remember  that  knot  of  white  birches?    I  don't." 

Gypsy  stopped  and  looked  around. 

"  N-no,  I  don't  know  as  I  do.  But  I  dare 
say  we  saw  them  and  forgot.  Let's  walk  a 
little  faster. 

They  walked  a  little  faster.  They  walked 
quite  as  fast  as  they  could  go. 

"  See  that  great  pile  of  rock,"  said  Joys 
presently,  her  voice  trembling  a  little;  "I 
know  we  didn't  come  by.  that  before.  It 
looks  as  if  there  were   a  precipice  off  there." 

Gypsy  made  no  answer.  She  was  looking 
keenly  around,  her  eyes  falling  on  every  rock, 
stump,  tree,  and  flower,  in  search  of  the  tiny, 
trodden  path  by  which  they  had  left  the  sum- 
mit of  the  mountain.  But  there  was  no  path. 
Only  the  bramble,  and  the  grass,  and  the 
tangled  thickets. 


It  was  now  very  dark. 

"I  guess  this  is  the  way,"  spoke  up  Gypsy, 
cheerfully — "here.  Take  hold  of  my  hand, 
Joy,  and  we'll  run.  I  think  I  know  where 
the  path  is.  We  had  turned  off  from  it  a 
little  bit." 

Joy  took  her  hand,  and  they  ran  on  to- 
gether. It  grew  darker,  and  grew  darker. 
They  could  scarcely  see  the  sky  now,  and 
the  brambles  grew  high  and  thick  and 
strange. 

Suddenly  Gypsy  stopped,  knee-deep  in  a 
jungle  of  blackberry  bushes. 

"Joy,  I'm  —  afraid  I  don't — know  the  — 
way." 


HE  two   girls,   still    clasping   hands, 
looked    into     each     other's     eyes. 
Gypsy   was    very  pale. 
"  Then  we  arc  lost/" 


Yes.' 


Joy  broke  into  a  sort  of  sobbing  cry. 
Gypsy  squeezed  her  hand  very  tightly,  with 
quivering  lips. 

"It's  all  my  fault.  I  thought  I  knew.  Oh, 
Joy,  I'm  so  sorry!" 

She  expected  Joy  to  burst  forth  in  a  tor- 
rent of  reproaches;,  once  it  would  have  been 
so;   but    for     some     reason,    Joy    did    not    say 


an  angry  word.  She  only  sobbed  away 
quietly,  clutching  at  Gypsy's  hand  as  if  she 
were  very  much  frightened.  She  was  fright- 
ened thoroughly.  The  scene  was  enough  to 
terrify    a    far    less    timid    child    than    Joy. 

It  was  now  quite  dark.  Over  in  the  west 
a  faint,  ghostly  gleam  of  light  still  lingered, 
seen  dimly  through  the  trees;  but  it  only 
made  the  utter  blackness  of  the  great  forest- 
shadows  more  horrible.  The  huge  trunks  of 
the  pines  and  maples  towered  up,  up  — 
they  could  scarcely  see  how  far,  grim,  and 
gloomy  and  silent;  here  and  there  a  dead 
branch  thrust  itself  out  against  the  sky,  in 
that  hideous  likeness  to  a  fleshless  hand 
which  night  and  darkness  always  lend  to 
them.  Even  Gypsy,  though  she  had  been  in 
the  woods  many  times  at  night  before, 
shuddered  as  she  stood  looking  up.  A  queer 
thought  came  to  her,  of  an  old  fable  she 
had  sometime  read  in  Tom's  mythology;  a 
fable    of   some   huge  Titans,  angry  and  fierce, 


who  tried  to  climb  into  heaven;  there  was 
just  that  look  about  the  trees.  It  was  very 
still.  The  birds  were  in  their  nests,  their 
singing  done.  From  far  away  in  some  dis- 
tant swamp  came  the  monotonous,  mournful 
chant  of  the  frogs — a  dreary  sound  enough, 
heard  in  a  safe  and  warm  and  lighted  home ; 
unspeakably  ugly  if  one  is  lost  in  a  deso- 
late forest. 

Now  and  then  a  startled  squirrel  dropped 
from  bough  to  bough;  or  there  was  the 
stealthy,  sickening  rustle  of  an  unseen  snake 
among  the  fallen  leaves.  From  somewhere, 
too,  where  precipices  that  they  could  not 
find  dashed  downwards  into  damp  gullies, 
cold,    clinging   mists  were   rising. 

"To  stay  here  all  night!"  sobbed  Joy, 
"Oh  Gypsy,   Gypsy!" 

Gypsy  was  a  brave,  sensible  girl,  and  after 
that  first  moment  of  horror  when  she  stood 
looking  up  at  the  trees,  her  courage  and  her 
wits  came    back    to   her. 


'■  I  don't  believe  we  shall  have  to  stay 
here  all  night,"  speaking  in  a  decided, 
womanly  way,  a  little  of  the  way  her 
mother    had   in    a   difficulty. 

'"They  are  all  over  the  mountain  hunting 
for  us  now.  They'll  find  us  before  long,  I 
know.  Besides,  if  they  didn't,  we  could  sit 
down  in  a  dry  place  somewhere,  and  wait 
till  morning;  there  wouldn't  anything  hurt  us. 
Oh,  you  brought  your  waterproof — good!  Put 
it  on  and  button  it  up  tight." 

Joy  had  the  cloak  folded  over  her  arm. 
She  did  passively  as  Gypsy  told  her.  When 
it  was  all  buttoned,  she  suddenly  remembered 
that  Gypsy  wore  only  her  thin,  nankeen  sack, 
and  she  offered  to  share  it  with  her. 

"No,"  said  Gypsy,  "  I  don't  want  it. 
Wrap  it  around  your  throat  as  warm  as  you 
can.  I  got  you  into  this  scrape,  and  now  I'm 
going  to  take  care  of  you.     Now  let's  halloa." 

And  halloa  they  did,  to  the  best  of  their 
ability;    Joy    in    her    feeble,    frightened    way, 


Gypsy  in  loud  shouts,  and  strong,  like  a 
boy's.  But  there  was  no  answer.  They 
called  again  and  again;  they  stopped  after 
each  cry,  with  breath  held  in,  and  head  bent 
to  listen.  Nothing  was  to  be  heard  but  the 
frogs  and  the  squirrels  and  the  gliding  snakes. 

Joy  broke  out  into  fresh  sobs. 

"Well,  it's  no  use  to  stand  here  any 
longer,"  said  Gypsy;   "let's  run  on." 

"Run  where?  You  don't  know  which  way. 
What  shall  we  do,  what  shall  we  do? " 

"We'll  go  this  way — we  haven't  tried  it  at 
all.  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  if  the  path 
were  right  over  there  where  it  looks  so  black. 
Besides,    we  shall  hear  them  calling  for  us." 

Ah,  if  there  had  been  anybody  to  tell 
them !  In  precisely  the  other  direction,  the 
picnic  party,  roused  and  frightened,  were 
searching  every  thicket,  and  shouting  their 
names  at  every  ravine.  Each  step  the  girls 
took  now  sent  'hem  so  much  further  away 
from  help. 


While  they  were  running  on,  still  hand  in 
hand,  Joy  heard  the  most  remarkable  sound. 
It  was  a  laugh  from  Gypsy — actually  a  soft, 
merry  laugh,  breaking  out  like  music  on  the 
night  air,   in  the  dreary  place. 

•'Why,  Gypsy  Breynton!  What  can  you 
find  to  laugh  at,  I  should  like  to  know?"  said 
Joy,  provoked  enough  to  stop  crying  at  very 
short  notice. 

"Oh,  dear,  I  really  can't  help  it,"  apologized 
Gypsy,  choking  down  the  offending  mirth; 
"but  I  was  thinking — I  couldn't  help  it,  Joy, 
now,  possibly — how  mad  Francis  Rowe  will 
be  to  think  he's  got  to  stop  and  help  hunt 
us  up ! " 

"I  wonder  what  that  black  thing  is  ahead 
of  us,"  said  Joy,  presently.  They  were  still 
running  on  together,  but  their  hands  were  not 
joined  just  at  that  moment.  Joy  was  a  little 
in  advance. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Gypsy,  eyeing 
it  intently.     The  words  were  scarcely  off  from 


her  lips  before  she  cried  out  with  a  loud  cry, 
and  sprang  forward,  clutching  at  Joy's  dress. 

She  was  too  late. 

Joy  tripped  over  a  mass  of  briars,  fell,  rolled 
heavily — not  over  upon  the  ground,  but  off. 
Off  into  horrible,  utter  darkness.  Down,  with 
outstretched  hands  and  one  long  shriek. 

Gypsy  stood  as  if  someone  had  charmed  her 
into  a  marble  statue,  her  hands  thrown  above 
her  head,  her  eyes  peering  into  the  blank 
darkness  below. 

She  stood  so  for  one  instant  only;  then  she 
did  what  only  wild,  impulsive  Gypsy  would 
have  done.  She  went  directly  down  after  Joy, 
clinging  with  her  hands  and  feet  to  the  side 
of  the  cliff;  slipping,  rolling,  getting  to  her 
feet  again,  tearing  her  clothes,  her  hands,  her 
arms — down  like  a  ball,  bounding,  bouncing, 
blinded,  bewildered. 

If  it  had  been  four  hundred  feet,  there  is  no 
doubt  she  would  have  gone  just  the  same.  It 
proved   to  be  only  ten,   and  she  landed  some- 


where  on  a  patch  of  soft  grass,  except  for  her 
scratches  and  a  bruise  or  two,  quite  unhurt. 

Something  lay  here  beside  her,  flat  upon 
the  ground.  It  was  Joy.  She  lay  perfectly 
still. 

A  horrible  fear  came  over  Gypsy.  She 
crept  up  on  her  hands  and  knees,  trying  to  see 
her  face  through  the  dark,  and  just  then  Joy 
moaned  faintly.  Gypsy's  heart  gave  a  great 
thump.  In  that  moment,  in  the  moment  of 
that  horrible  fear  and  that  great  relief,  Gypsy 
knew  for  the  first  time  that  she  loved  Joy,  and 
how  much. 

"It's  my  ankle,"  moaned  Joy;  "it  must  be 
broken — I  know  it's  broken." 

It  was  not  broken,  but  very  badly  sprained. 

"Can  you  stand  on  it?"  asked  Gypsy,  her 
face  almost  as  pale  as  Joy's. 

Joy  tried  to  get  to  her  feet,  but  fell  heavily, 
with  a  cry  of  pain. 

Gypsy  looked  around  her  with  dismay. 
Above,  the  ten  feet  of  rock  shot  steeply;  across 


the  gully  towered  a  high,  dark  wall;  at  each 
end,  shelving  stones  were  piled  upon  each 
other.  They  had  fallen  into  a  sort  of  unroofed 
cave, — a  hollow,  shut  in  completely  and  im- 
passably. Impassably  to  Joy;  there  could  be 
no  doubt  about  that.  To  leave  her  there 
alone  was  out  of  the  question.  There  was 
but  one  thing  to  be  done;  there  was  no  alter- 
native. 

"We  must  stay  here  all  night,  said  Gypsy, 
slowly.  She  had  scarcely  finished  her  sen- 
tence when  she  sprang  up,  her  lips  parted  and 
white. 

"Joy,  see,  see!  what  is  that  ?  " 

"What?  Where?"  asked  Joy  between  her 
sobs. 

' '  There !  isn't  that  smoke  ?  " 

A  distinct,  crackling  sound  answered  her,  as 
of  something  fiercely  licking  up  the  dead 
leaves  and  twigs, — a  fearful  sound  to  hear  in  a 
great  forest.  At  the  same  instant  a  white 
cloud  of  smoke  puffed  down  almost  into  their 


faces.  Before  they  had  time  to  stir  or  cry  out, 
a  great  jet  of  yellow  flame  shot  up  on  the 
edge  of  the  cliff,  glared  far  into  the  shadow 
of  the  forest,  lighted  up  the  ravine  with  an 
awful  brightness. 

The  mountain  was  on  fire. 

Gypsy  sat  for  the  instant  without  speaking 
or  moving.  She  seemed  to  herself  to  have  no 
words  to  say,  no  power  of  motion.  She  knew 
far  better  than  Joy  what  those  five  words 
meant.  A  dim  remembrance  came  to  her — 
and  it  was  horrible  that  it  should  come  to  her 
just  then — of  something  she  had  seen  when 
she  was  a  very  little  girl,  and  never  forgotten, 
and  never  would  forget.  A  mountain  burn- 
ing for  weeks,  and  a  woman  lost  on  it;  all 
the  town  turned  out  in  an  agony  of  search ; 
the  fires  out  one  day,  and  a  slow  procession 
winding  down  the  blank,  charred  slope,  bear- 
ing something  closely  covered,  that  no  one 
looked  upon. 

She  sprang  up  in  an  agony  of  terror. 


"Oh,  Joy,  can't  you  walk?  We  shall  die 
here!     We  shall  be  burned  to  death! " 

At  that  moment  a  naming  branch  fell  hiss- 
ing into  a  little  pool  at  the  bottom  of  the 
gull)r.  It  passed  so  near  them  that  it  singed 
a  lock  of  Gypsy's  hair. 

Joy  crawled  to  her  feet,  fell,  crawled  up 
again,  fell  again. 

Gypsy  seized  her  in  both  arms,  and  dragged 
her  across  the  gully.  Joy  was  taller  than 
herself,  and  nearly  as  heavy.  How  she  did  it 
she  never  knew.  Terror  gave  her  a  flash  of 
that  sort  of  strength  which  we  sometimes  find 
among  the  insane. 

She  laid  Joy  down  in  a  corner  of  the  ravine 
the  furthest  removed  from  the  fire;  she  could 
not  have  carried  her  another  inch.  Above  and 
all  around  towered  and  frowned  the  rocks; 
there  was  not  so  much  as  a  crevice  opening 
between  them;  there  was  not  a  spot  that  Joy 
could  climb.  Across,  the  great  tongues  of 
flame    tossed    themselves    into    the    air.    and 


glared  awfully  against  the  sky,  which  was  dark 
with  hurrying  clouds.  The  underbrush  was 
all  on  fire;  two  huge  pine  trees  were  ablaze, 
their  branches  shooting  off  hotly  now  and 
then  like  rockets. 

When  those  trees  fell  they  would  fall  into  the 
ravine. 

Gypsy  sat  down  and  covered  her  face. 

Little  did  Mr.  Francis  Rowe  think  what  he 
had  done,  when,  strolling  along  by  the  ravine 
at  twilight,  he  threw  down  his  half-burnt 
cigar:  threw  it  down  and  walked  away  whist- 
ling, and  has  probably  never  thought  of  it 
from  that  day  to  this. 

Gypsy  sat  there  with  her  hands  before  her 
face,  and  she  sat  very  still.  She  understood 
in  that  moment  wThat  was  coming  to  her  and 
to  Joy.  Yes,  to  her  as  well  as  to  Joy;  for  she 
would  not  leave  Joy  to  die  alone.  It  would 
be  an  easy  thing  for  her  to  climb  the  cliffs; 
she  was  agile,  fearless,  as  used  to  the  moun- 
tains as  a  young  chamois,  and  the  ascent,  as  I 


said,  though  steep,  was  not  high.  Once  out 
of  that  gully  where  death  was  certain,  she 
would  have  at  least  a  chance  of  life.  The 
fire  if  not  checked  would  spread  rapidly, 
would  chase  her  down  the  mountain.  But 
that  she  could  escape  it  she  thought  was 
probable,  if  not  sure.  And  life  was  so  sweet, 
so  dear.  And  her  mother — poor  mother,  wait- 
ing at  home,  and  looking  and  longing  for  her! 

Gypsy  gave  a  great  gulp;  there  was  such 
a  pain  in  her  throat  it  seemed  as  if  it 
would  strangle  her.  But  should  she  leave 
Joy,  crippled  and  helpless,  to  die  alone  in 
this  horrible  place?  Should  she  do  it?  No, 
it  was  through  her  careless  fault  that  they 
had  been  brought  into  it.  She  would  stay 
with  Joy. 

"I  don't  see  as  we  can  do  anything,'' 
she  said,    raising    her  head. 

"  Shall  we  be  burned  to  death?"  shrieked 
Joy.  "  Gypsy,  Gypsy,  shall  we  be  burned 
to  death? " 

223 


A  huge,  hot  branch  flew  into  the  gully 
while  she  spoke,  hissing  as  the  other  had 
done,  into  the  pool.  The  glare  shot  deeper 
and  redder  into  the  forest,  and  the  great 
trees  writhed  in  the  flames  like  human 
things. 

The  two  girls  caught  each  other's  hands. 
To  die  —  to  die  so  horribly !  One  moment 
to  be  sitting  there,  well  and  strong,  so  full 
of  warm,  young  life;  the  next  to  lie  buried 
in  a  hideous  tangle  of  fallen,  flaming  trunks, 
their  bodies  consuming  to  a  little  heap  of 
ashes  that  the  wind  would  blow  away  to- 
morrow   morning;    their   souls  —  where? 

"I  wish  I'd  said  my  prayers  every  day," 
sobbed  Joy,  weakly.  "I  wish  I'd  been  a 
good   girl ! " 

"  Let's  say  them  now,  Joy.  Let's  ask 
Him  to  stop  the  fire.  If  He  can't,  maybe 
He'll   let    us  go    to   heaven    anyway." 

So  Gypsy  knelt  down  on  the  rocks  that 
were    becoming   hot   now    to   the     touch,    and 


began  the  first  words  that  came  to  her:  — 
"Our  Father  which  art  in  Heaven,"  and 
faltered  in  them,  sobbing,  and  began  again, 
and    went    through    somehow    to    the    end. 

After   that,   they    were    still    a    moment. 

"Joy,"  said  Gypsy  then,  faintly,  "I've 
been  real  ugly  to  you  since  you've  been  at 
our  house." 

"  I've  scolded  you,  too,  a  lot,  and  made 
fun  of   your   things.     I   wish    I    hadn't. 

"  If  we  could  only  get  out  of  here,  I'd 
never  be  cross  to  you  as  long  as  ever  I 
live,  and  I  wish  you'd  please  to  forgive 
me." 

"I  will  if  —  if  you'll  forgive  me,  you  know. 
Oh,    Gypsy,    it's  growing  so    hot    over  here!" 

"  Kiss  me,  Joy." 

They   kissed  each   other  through  their  sobs. 

"Mother's  in  the  parlor  now,  watching 
for  us,   and  Tom  and  — " 

Gypsy's  sentence  was  never  finished.  There 
was   a   great    blazing    and     crackling,   and  one 


of  the  trees  fell,  swooping'  down  with  a 
crash.  It  fell  across  the  ravine,  lying  there, 
a  bridge  of  flame,  and  lighting  the  under- 
brush upon  the  opposite  side.  One  tree 
stood  yet.  That  would  fall,  when  it  fell, 
directly  into  the  corner  of  the  gully  where 
the  girls  were  crouched  up  against  the 
rocks.  And  then  Joy  remembered  what  in 
her   terror     she    had    not     thought    of   before. 

"Gypsy,  you  can  climb!  don't  stay  here 
with    me.     What    are   you    staying   for? " 

"You  needn't  talk  about  that,"  said 
Gypsy,  with  faltering  voice,  "if  it  hadn't 
been  for  me  you  wouldn't  be  here.  I'm  not 
going  to  sneak  off  and  leave  you,  —  not  any 
such  thing!  " 

Whether  Gypsy  would  have  kept  this  re- 
solve —  and  very  like  Gypsy  it  was,  to  make 
it —  when  the  flames  were  actually  upon 
her;  whether,  indeed,  she  ought  to  have 
kept  it,  are  questions  open  to  discussion. 
Something     happened     just     then    that    saved 


the  trouble  of  deciding.  It  was  nothing  but 
a  clap  of  thunder,  to  be  sure,  but  I  wonder 
if  you  have  any  idea  how  it  sounded  to 
those  two  girls. 

It  was  a  tremendous  peal,  and  it  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  fierce  lightning-flash  and  a  second 
peal,  and  then  by  something  that  the  girls 
stretched  out  their  arms  to  with  a  great  cry, 
as  if  it  had  been  an  angel  from  heaven.  A 
shower  almost  like  the  bursting  of  a  cloud. — 
great,  pelting  drops,  hissing  down  upon  the 
flaming  tree;  it  seemed  like  a  solid  sheet  of 
water;  as  if  the  very  flood-gates  of  heaven 
wrere  open. 

The  cruel  fire  hissed  and  sputtered,  and  shut 
up  in  angry  jets,  and  died  in  puffs  of  sullen 
smoke;  the  glaring  bridge  blackened  slowly; 
the  pine-tree,  swayed  by  the  sudden  winds. 
fell  into  the  forest,  and  the  ravine  was  safe. 
The  flames,  though  not  quenched, — it  might 
take  hours  to  do  that, — were  thoroughly 
checked. 


And  who  was  that  with  white,  set  face, 
and  outstretched  hands,  springing  over  the 
smoking   logs,  leaping    down  into  the    ravine? 

"Oh,  Tom,  Tom!  Oh,  father,  here  we 
are'  " 


O  go  to  Washington? 

"Go  to  Washington!" 

"  Did  yon  ever? " 

"Never!  " 
"  See  the  President." 

"And   the  White    House  and   the  soldiers." 
"And  the  donkeys  and  all." 
"  I  know  it." 

"  Father    Breynton,  if  you're  not   just  mag- 
nificent! " 

This  classical    conversation    took   place  on  a 


certain  Wednesday  morning  in  that  golden 
June  which  the  picnic  ushered  in.  And  such 
a  hurrying  and  scampering,  and  mending  and 
making  of  dresses,  such  a  trimming  of  sum- 
mer hats  and  packing  of  trunks  and  valises, 
as  there  was  the  rest  of  that  week! 

"  You'd  better  believe  we're  busy,"  Gypsy 
observed,  with  a  very  superior  air,  to  Mrs. 
Surly,  who  had  "just  dropped  in  to  find  out 
what  that  flyaway  Gypsy  had  been  screechin' 
round  the  house  so  for,   these  two  days  past." 

"  You'd  better  believe  we  have  enough  to 
do.  Joy's  got  two  white  skirts  to  have  tucked 
in  little  bits  of  tucks,  and  she's  sent  to  Bos- 
ton for  a  new  veil.  Mother's  made  me  a 
•whole  new  dress  to  wear  in  the  cars,  and 
I've  got  a  beautiivl  brown  feather  for  my 
turban.  Besides,  we're  going  to  see  the 
President,  and  what  do  you  think?  Father 
says  there  are  ever  so  many  mules  in  Wash- 
ington. WTon't  I  sit  at  the  windows  and  see 
'em  go  by !  " 

230 


Thursday,  Friday,  Saturday  passed;  Sun- 
day began  and  ended  in  a  rain-storm;  Mon- 
day came  like  a  dream,  with  warm,  sweet 
winds,  and  dewdrops  quivering  in  a  blaze  of 
unclouded  light.  Like  a  dream  it  seemed  to 
the  girls  to  be  hurrying  away  at  five  o'clock, 
from  an  unfinished  breakfast,  from  Mrs. 
Breynton's  gentle  good-bye,  Tom's  valuable 
patronage  and  advice,  and  Winnie's  reminder 
that  he  was  five  years  old,  and  that  to  the 
candid  mind  it  was  perfectly  clear  that  he 
ought  "to  go  too-o-oo." 

Ve*ry  much  like  a  dream  was  it,  to  be 
walking  on  the  platform  at  the  station,  in 
the  tucked  skirts  and  new  brown  feather; 
to  watch  the  checking  of  the  trunks  and 
buying  of  the  tickets,  quite  certain  that 
they  were  different  from  all  other  checks 
and  tickets;  to  find  how  interesting  the 
framed  railway  and  steamboat  guide  for  the 
Continent,  on  the  walls  of  the  little  dingy 
ladies'    room,     suddenly     became,  —  at    least. 


until  the  pleasing  discovery  that  it  was 
printed  in  1849,  and  gave  minute  directions 
for   reaching  the    Territory   of   California. 

More  like  a  dream  was  it,  to  watch  the 
people  that  lounged  or  worked  about  the 
depot;  the  ticket-master,  who  had  stood 
shut  up  there  just  so  behind  the  little  win- 
dow for  twenty  years;  the  baggage-master, 
who  tossed  about  their  trunks  without  ever 
thinking  of  the  jewelry-boxes  inside,  and 
that  cologne-bottle  with  the  shaky  cork; 
the  cross-eyed  woman  with  her  knitting-work, 
who  sold  sponge-cake  and  candy  behind  a 
very  small  counter;  the  small  boys  in  sin- 
gularly airy  jackets,  who  were  putting  pins 
and  marbles  on  the  track  for  the  train  to 
run  over;  the  old  woman  across  the  street, 
who  was  hanging  out  her  clothes  to  dry  in 
the  back  yard,  just  as  if  it  had  been 
nothing  but  a  common  Monday,  and  no- 
body had  been  going  to  Washington ;  —  how 
strange    it     seemed    that    they    could    all     be 


living  on  and  on  just  as  they  did  every- 
day! 

"Oh,  just  think!  said  Gypsy,  with  wide 
open  eyes.  Did  you  ever?  Isn't  it  funny? 
Oh,  I  wish  they  could  go  off  and  have  a 
good    time    too." 

Still  like  a  dream  did  it  seem,  when  the 
train  shrieked  up  and  shrieked  them  away, 
over  and  down  the  mountains,  through  sun- 
light and  shadow,  by  forest  and  river, 
past  village  and  town  and  city,  away  like 
an  arrow,  with  Yorkbury  out  of  sight,  and 
out  of  mind,  and  only  the  wonderful,  untried 
days  that  were  coming,  to  think  about,  — 
ah,  who  would  think  of  anything  else,  that 
could   have   such  days? 

Gypsy  made  her  entrance  into  Boston  in 
a  very  distingue  style.  It  chanced  that  just 
after  they  left  Fitchburg,  she  espied  the 
stone  pier  of  an  unfinished  bridge,  sur- 
mounted by  a  remarkable  boy  standing  on 
his    head.       Up     went    the    car-window,     and 


out  went  her  own  head  and  one  shoulder, 
the  better  to  obtain  a  view  of  the  phe- 
nomenon. 

"Look  out,  Gypsy,"  said  her  father  un- 
easily. "If  another  train  should  come 
along,    that   is   very  dangerous." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Gypsy,  with  a  twinkle  in 
her    eye,    "I    am    looking   out." 

Now,  as  Mr.  Breynton  had  been  on  the 
continual  worry  about  her  ever  since  they 
left  Yorkbury,  afraid  she  would  catch  cold 
in  the  draft,  lose  her  glove  out  of  the  win- 
dow, go  out  on  the  platform,  or  fall  in 
stepping  from  car  to  car,  Gypsy  did  not  pay 
the  immediate  heed  to  his  warning  that  she 
ought  to  have  done.  Before  he  had  time 
to  speak  again,  puff!  came  a  sharp  gust  of 
wind  and  away  went  her  pretty  turban  with 
its  new  brown  feather,  —  over  the  bridge 
and   down    into    the    river. 

"There!"   said    Toy. 

"Gypsy,    my   dear!'''    said   her   father. 


•  ■  Well,  anyway, "  said 
Gypsy,  drawing  in  her  head  in 
the  utmost  astonishment,  "  I 
can    wear    a    handkerchief." 

So  into  Boston  she  came 
with  nothing  but  a  hand- 
kerchief tied  over  her  bright, 
tossing  hair.  You  ought  to 
have  seen  the  hackmen 
laugh ! 

The  girls  made  an  agree- 
ment with  Mrs.  Breynton 
to  keep  a  journal  while  they 
were  gone;  send  her  what 
they  could,  and  read  the  rest  of  it  to  her  when 
they  came  home.  She  thought  in  this  way  they 
would  remember  what  they  saw  more  easily, 
and  with  much  less  confusion  and  mistake. 
These  journals  will  give  you  a  better  account 
of   their  journey   than    I    can    do. 

They   wrote    first  from  New  York.     This  is 
what  Joy  had  to  say: — 


New  YORK,  June  17, — Tuesday  Night. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  tired!  We've  been  'on  the  go' 
all  day.  You  see,  we  got  into  Boston  last 
night,  and  took  the  boat,  you  know,  just  as 
we  expected  to.  I've  been  on  so  forty  times 
with  father;  he  used  to  take  me  ever  so  often 
when  he  went  on  business;  so  I  was  just  as 
used  to  it,  and  went  right  to  sleep;  but  Gypsy, 
you  know,  she's  never  been  to  New  York  any 
way,  and  never  was  on  a  steamer,  and  you 
ought  to  have  seen  her  keep  hopping  up  in  hei 
berth  to  look  at  things  and  listen  to  things !  I 
expected  as  much  as  could  be  she'd  fall  down 
on  me — I  had  the  under  berth — and  I  don't 
believe  she  slept  very  much.  I  don't  care  so 
much  about  New  York  as  she  does,  either, 
because  I've  seen  it  all.  Uncle  thought  we'd 
stay  here  a  day  so  as  to  look  about.  He  wanted 
Gypsy  to  see  some  pictures  and  things.  To- 
morrow morning  real  early  we  go  to  Phila- 
delphia. You  don't  know  what  a  lovely  bon- 
net I  saw  up  Fifth  Avenue  to-day.  It  was 
236 


white  crape,  with  the  dearest  little  loves  of 
forget-me-nots  outside  and  in,  and  then  a 
white  veil.  I'm  going-  to  make  father  buy  me 
one  just  like  it  as  soon  as  I  go  out  of  mourning. 

"  I  expect  this  isn't  very  much  like  a  jour- 
nal, but  I'm  terribly  sleepy,  and  I  guess  I  must 
go  to  bed." 

GYPSY'S  JOURNAL. 

"  Brevoort  House,  Tuesday  Night. 

"Mother,  Mother  Breynton!  I  never  had 
such  a  good  time  in  all  my  life !  Oh,  I  forgot 
to  say  I  haven't  any  more  idea  how  to  write  a 
journal  than  the  man  in  the  moon.  I  meant  to 
put  that  at  the  beginning  so  you'd  know. 

"Well,  we  came  on  by  boat,  and  you've  no 
idea  how  that  machinery  squeaked.  I  laughed 
and  laughed,  and  I  kept  waking  up  and  laugh- 
ing. 

"Then — oh,  did  Joy  tell  you  about  my  hat? 
I  suppose  you'll  be  sorry,  but  I  don't  believe 
you  can  help  laughing  possibly.  I  just  lost  it 
out  of  the  car  window,  looking  at  a  boy  out  in 


the  river  standing  on  its  head.  I  mean  the 
boy  was  on  his  head,  not  the  river,  and  I  had 
to  come  into  Boston  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief. 
Father  hurried  off  to  get  me  a  new  hat,  'cause 
there  wasn't  any  time  for  me  to  go  with  him, 
and  what  do  you  suppose  he  bought?  I  don't 
think  you'd  ever  get  over  it,  if  you  were  to  see 
it.  It  was  a  white  turban  with  a  black  edge 
rolled  up,  and  a  great  fringe  of  blue  beads  and 
Si  green  feather/  He  said  he  bought  it  at  the 
first  milliner's  he  came  to,  and  I  should  think 
he  did.  I  guess  you'd  better  believe  I  felt  nice 
going  all  the  way  to  New  York  in  it.  This 
morning  I  ripped  off  the  blue  fringe  the  very 
first  thing,  and  went  into  Broadway  (isn't  it  a 
big  street?  and  I  never  saw  such  tall  police- 
men with  so  many  whiskers  and  such  a  lot  of 
ladies  to  be  helped  across)  and  bought  some 
black  velvet  ribbon  with  a  white  edge  to  match 
the  straw;  the  green  feather  wasn't  nice 
enough  to  wear.  I  knew  I  oughtn't  to  have 
lost  the  other,  and  father  paid  five  dollars  for 


this  horrid  old  thing,  so  I  thought  I  wouldn't 
take  it  to  a  milliner.  I  just  trimmed  it  up  my- 
self in  a  rosette,  and  it  doesn't  look  so  badly 
after  all.  But  oh,  my  pnetty  brown  feather! 
Isn't  it  a  shame? 

''Father  took  us  to  the  Aspinwall  picture- 
gallery  to-day.  Joy  didn't  care  about  it,  but  I 
liked  it  ever  so  much,  only  there  were  ever  so 
many  Virgin  Marys  up  in  the  clouds,  that 
looked  as  if  they'd  been  washed  out  and  hung 
up  to  dry.  Besides,  I  didn't  understand 
what  all  the  little  angels  were  kicking  at. 
Father  said  they  were  from  the  old  masters, 
and  there  was  a  lady  with  a  pink  parasol,  that 
screamed  right  out,  and  said  they  were  sweet 
pretty.  I  suppose  when  I'm  grown  up  I  shall 
have  to  think  so  too.  I  saw  a  picture  of  a 
little  boy  out  in  the  woods,  asleep,  that  I  liked 
ever  so  much  better. 

"We've  seen  ever  so  many  other  things,  but 
I  haven't  half  time  to  tell  you  about  them  all. 

"We're    at    the     Brevoort     House,     and     I 

239 


tell  you  I  was  frightened  when  I  first  came 
in,  it's  so  handsome.  We  take  our  rooms, 
and  then  just  go  down  into  the  most  splen- 
did dining-hall,  and  sit  down  at  little  tables 
and  order  what  we  want,  and  don't  pay  for 
anything  but  that.  Father  says  it's  the 
European  plan.  Our  rooms  are  beautiful. 
Don't  you  tell  anybody,  but  I'm  almost 
afraid  of  the  waiters  and  chambermaids; 
they  look  as  if  they  felt  so  grand.  But  Joy, 
she  just  rings  the  bell  and  makes  them 
bring  her  up  some  water,  and  orders  them 
around  like  anything.  Joy  wanted  to  go  to 
the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel,  but  father  said  it 
was  too  noisy.  He  says  this  is  noisy  enough, 
but  he  wanted  us  to  see  what  a  handsome 
hotel  is  like,  and  —  and  —  why !  Fm  almost 
asleep. 

JOY'S  JOURNAL. 
"Philadelphia,   Wednesday,   June    18. 
"We    came   to    Philadelphia    this  morning, 
and  we   almost   choked    with    the  dust,     riding 


through  New  Jersey.  We're  at  a  boarding- 
house,  —  a  new  one  just  opened.  They  call 
it  the  Markoe  House.  (I  haven't  the  least 
idea  whether  I've  spelled  it  right.)  Uncle 
didn't  sleep  very  well  last  night,  so  he 
wanted  a  quiet  place,  and  thought  the  hotels 
were  noisy.  He  thought  once  of  going  to 
La  Pierre,  but  gave  it  up.  Father  used  to 
go  to  the  Continental,  I  know,  because  I've 
heard  him  say  so.  I'm  too  tired  to  write 
any   more." 

GYPSY'S  JOURNAL. 

"  Thursday,  June  something  or  other. 

"We  stayed  over  a  day  here,  —  oh,  'here' 
is  Philadelphia,  —  because  father  wanted  us 
to  see  the  city.  It's  real  funny.  People 
have  white  wooden  shutters  outside  their 
windows,  and  when  anybody  dies  they  keep 
a  black  ribbon  hanging  out  on  them.  Then 
the  streets  are  so  broad.  I  saw  four  Quak- 
ers this  morning.  We've  been  out  to  see 
Girard  College,  where  they  take  care  of  orphans, 


and  the  man  that  built  it,  Mr.  Stephen 
Girard,  he  wouldn't  ever  let  any  minister 
step    inside    it.     Wasn't    it    funny  in  him? 

''Then  we  went  over  to  Fairmount,  besides. 
Fairmount  is  where  they  bring  up  the  water 
from  the  Schuylkill  river,  to  supply  the  city. 
There  is  machinery  to  force  it  up  —  great 
wheels  and  things.  Then  it  makes  a  sort  of 
pond  on  top  of  a  hill,  and  there  are  statues 
and    trees,   and    it's    real   beautiful. 

" '  Father  wanted  to  take  us  out  to  Laurel 
Hill:  —  that's  the  cemetery,  he  says,  very 
much  like  Mount  Auburn,  near  Boston, 
where  Aunt  Miranda  is  buried.  But  we 
shan't   have    time." 

GYPSY'S  JOURNAL. 

"  Friday  Night. 
"In  Washington!    in  Washington!    and  I'm 
too    sleepy   to   write    a   thing   about   it." 


Chapter-  xn 


«A« 


# 


*TELEG1R 

% 

JOY'S  JOURNAL. 

"  Saturday,  June  21st. 
"WELL,  we  are  here  at  last, 
and  it  is  really  very  nice.  I 
didn't  suppose  I  should  like  it 
so  much ;  but  there  is  a  great 
deal  to  be  seen.  We  stopped  over  one  train 
at  Baltimore.  It  rained  like  everything,  but 
uncle  wanted  us  to  see  the  city.  So  we  took 
a  hack  and  drove  about,  and  saw  Washington's 
monument.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  describe  it, 
but  it  was  so  rainy  I  didn't  notice  it  very 
much.       I     think     monuments     look     like    big 


ghosts,    and    then    I'm    always    afraid    they'll 
tumble    over   on    me. 

''Gypsy  said  she  wondered  whether  George 
Washington  ever  looked  down  out  of  heaven 
to  see  the  monuments,  and  cities,  and 
towns,  and  all  the  things  that  are  named 
after  him,  and  what  he  thought  about  it. 
Wasn't   it    queer    in    her? 

"We  stopped  at  a  great  cathedral  there 
is  in  Baltimore,  too.  It  was  very  handsome, 
only  so  dark.  I  saw  some  Irish  women  say- 
ing their  prayers  round  in  the  pews,  and 
there  was  a  dish  of  holy  water  by  the  door, 
and  they  all  dipped  their  fingers  in  it  and 
crossed    themselves    as    they  went    in  and  out. 

"We  saw  ever  so  many  negroes  in  Balti- 
more, too.  From  the  time  you  get  to  Phil- 
adelphia, on  to  Washington,  there  are  ever 
so  many;  it's  so  different  from  New  Eng- 
land. I  never  saw  so  many  there  in  all  my 
life  as  we  have  seen  these  few  days. 
Gypsy    doubled    up   her    fist    and    looked   real 


angry  when  she  saw  them  sometimes,  and 
said,  "Just  to  think!  perhaps  that  man  is  a 
slave,  or  that  little  girl!"  But  I  never 
thought  about  it  somehow.  To-morrow  I 
will  write  about  Washington.  Baltimore  has 
taken   up   all    my   room." 

GYPSY'S  JOURNAL. 

Willard's  Hotel,  Saturday  Night. 
"You  ought  to  have  seen  the  yellow 
omnibus  we  came  up  from  the  depot  in ! 
Such  a  looking  thing!  It  was  ever  so  long, 
something  like  a  square  stove-pipe,  pulled 
out;  and  it  was  real  crowded,  and  the  way 
it  jolted!  There  were  several  of  them  there 
waiting  for  the  passengers.  I  should  think 
they  might  have  some  decent,  comfortable 
horse-cars,  the  way  they  do  in  other  cities. 
I  think  it's  very  nice  at  Philadelphia.  They 
come  to  the  depots  at  every  train,  and  go 
down  at  every  train.  Father  says  the  horse- 
car  arrangements  are  better  in  Philadelphia 
than    the)T    are    in    Boston    or    New    York. 

245 


"  It  seems  very  funny  here,  to  be  in  a 
city  that  is  under  military  rule,  There  are 
a  great  many  soldiers,  and  barracks  where 
they  sleep;  and  a  great  many  tents,  too. 
There  are  forts,  father  says,  all  around  the 
city,  and  Monday  we  can  see  some  of  them. 
While  we  were  riding  up  from  the  depot  I 
saw  six  soldiers  marching  along  with  a  Rebel 
prisoner.  Father  says  they  found  him  hang- 
ing around  the  Capitol,  and  that  he  was  a 
Rebel  spy.  He  had  on  a  ragged  coat,  and 
a  great  many  black  whiskers,  and  he  was 
swearing  terribly.  I  didn't  feel  sorry  for 
him  a  bit,  and  I  hope  they'll  hang  him,  or 
something;  but    father  says   he    doesn't  know. 

"We  are  at  Willard's  Hotel.  Father  came 
here  for  the  same  reason  he  went  to  the 
Brevoort — so  we  might  see  what  it  was  like. 
It  is  very  large,  and  so  many  stairs!  and 
such  long  dining-tables,  and  so  many  men 
eating  at  them.  We  didn't  have  as  nice  a 
supper  as  we  did  in  New  York. 
246 


"It  ie  late  now,  and  the  lamps  are 
lighted  in  the  streets.  I  can  see  from  the 
window  the  people  hurrying  by,  and  some 
soldiers,  and  one  funny  little  tired  mule 
drawing  a  great  wagon  of  something. 

"There!  he's  stopped  and  won't  move  an 
inch,  and  the  man  is  whipping  him  awfully. 
The  wicked  old  thing.     ***** 

"I  was  just  going  to  open  the  window 
and  tell  him  to  stop,  but  father  says  I 
mustn't. 

"As   we    rode    up  from    the    depot,    I    saw 
a   great  round  dim    thing  away    in   the    dark. 
Father    says   it    is  the    dome    of  the  Capitol." 
GYPSY'S  JOURNAL. 

"  After  Sundown,  Sunday    Night. 

"Father  says  it  isn't  any  harm  to  write 
a  little  about  what  we  saw  to-day,  because 
we   haven't  been    anywhere  except   to  church. 

"The     horrid    old  gong  woke    me    up    real 
early   this   morning.     I    should    have  thought 
it  very   late     at    home,    but    they   don't    have 
247 


breakfast  in  hotels  till  eight .  o'clock  hardly 
ever,  and  you  can  get  up  all  along  till 
eleven,  just  as  you  like.  This  morning  we 
were  so  tired  that  we  didn't  want  to  get  up 
a  bit. 

'''There  was  a  waiter  at  the  table  that 
tipped  over  a  great  plateful  of  beefsteak  and 
gravy  right  on  to  a  lady's  blue  silk  morn- 
ing-dress. She  was  a  Senator's  wife,  and  she 
jumped  like  anything.  Joy  said,  '  What  a 
shame ! '  but  I  think  it's  real  silly  in  people 
to  wear  blue  silk  morning-dresses,  because 
then  you  can't  wear  anything  any  nicer,  and 
you  won't  feel  dressed  up  in  the  afternoon  a 
bit. — Oh,   I  forgot!    this  isn't  Sunday! 

"Well,  we  all  went  to  church  this  morn- 
ing to  Dr.  Gurley's  church.  Dr.  Gurley  is 
a  Presbyterian,  father  says.  I  don't  care 
anything  about  that,  but  I  thought  you 
might.  That  is  the  church  President  Lin- 
coln goes  to,  and  we  went  there  so  as  to  see 
him. 

2±i 


"  He  sat  clear  up  in  front,  and  I  couldn't 
see  anything  all  through  the  sermon  but 
the  back  of  his  head.  We  sat  'most  down 
by  the  door.  Besides,  there  was  a  little  boy 
in  the  pew  next  ours  that  kept  his  father's 
umbrella  right  over  the  top  of  the  pew,  and 
made  me  laugh.  He  was  just  about  as  big 
as  Winnie.  Oh,  they  say  slip  here  instead 
of  pew,  just  as  they  do  in  Boston.  I  don't 
see  what's  the  use.  Joy  doesn't  like  it  be- 
cause I  keep  saying  pew.  She  says  it's 
countrified.  I  think  one  is  just  as  good  as 
another. 

"Well,  you  see,  we  just  waited,  and  father 
looked  at  the  minister,  and  Joy  and  I  kept 
watching  the  President's  kid  gloves.  They 
were  black  because  he's  in  mourning  for  his 
little  boy,  and  he  kept  putting  his  hand  to 
his  face  a  great  deal.  He  moved  round  too, 
ever  so  much.  I  kept  thinking  how  tired 
he  was,  working  away  all  the  week,  taking 
care  of  those  great   armies,  and  being  scolded 


when  we  got  beaten,  just  as  if  it  were  all 
his  fault.  I  think  it  is  real  good  in  him  to 
come  to  church  anyway.  If  I  were  President 
and  had  so  much  to  do,  and  got  so  tired, 
I'd  stay  at  home  Sundays  and  go  to  sleep, — 
if  you'd  let  me.  I  think  President  Lincoln 
must  be  a  very  good  man.  I'm  sure  he  is, 
and  I'll  tell  you  why. 

"  After  church  we  waited  so  as  to  see  him. 
There  were  ever  so  many  strangers  sitting 
there  together, —  about  fifty  I  should  say, 
but  father  laughed  and  said  twenty.  Well, 
we  all  stood  up,  and  he  began  to  walk 
down  the  aisle  with  his  wife,  and  I  saw  his 
face,  and  he  isn't  homely,  but  he  looks  real 
kind,  and  oh,  mother!  so  sober  and  sad!  and 
I  know   he's   a   good   man,    and    that's    why. 

"  Mrs.  Lincoln  was  dressed  all  in  black, 
with  a  long  crape  veil.  She  kind  of  peeked 
out  under  it,  but  I  couldn't  see  her  very 
well,  and  I  didn't  think  much  about  her  be- 
cause I  was  looking  at  him 
250 


''Well,  then,  you  see  there  were  some 
people  in  front  of  me,  and  I  couldn't  see  very- 
well,  so  I  just  stepped  up  on  a  cricket  so's  to 
be  tall,  and  what  do  you  think  ?  When  the 
President  was  opposite,  just  opposite,  and 
looked  round  at  us,  that  old  cricket  had  to  tip 
over,  and  down  I  went,  flat,  in  the  bottom  of 
the  pew! 

"I  guess  my  cheeks  were  as  red  as  two 
beets  when  I  got  up;  and  the  President  saw 
me,  and  he  looked  right  at  me, — right  into 
my  eyes  and  laughed.  He  did  now,  really, 
and  he  looked  as  if  he  couldn't  help  it,  pos- 
sibly. 

"When  he  laughs  it  looks  like  a  little  sun- 
beam or  something,  running  all  over  his  face. 

"Father  says  we  shan't  probably  see  him 
again.  They  don't  have  any  receptions  now 
at  the  White  House,  because  they  are  in 
mourning. 

"We  went  to  a  Quaker  meeting  this  after- 
noon, but  there  isn't  any  time  to  tell  about  it." 


JOY'S  JOURNAL. 

"  Monday,  June  23. 

"Oh  dear  me!  We've  seen  so  much  to- 
day I  can't  remember  half  of  it.  I  shall 
write  what  I  can,  and  Gypsy  may  write  the 
rest. 

"  In  the  first  place,  we  went  to  the  Capitol. 
It's  built  of  white  marble,  and  it's  very  large. 
There  are  quantities  of  long  steps  on  different 
sides  of  it,  and  so  many  doors,  and  passages, 
and  rooms,  and  pillars.  I  never  could  find 
my  way  out,  in  the  world,  alone.  I  wonder 
the  Senators  don't  get  lost  sometimes. 

"About  the  first  place  you  come  into  is  c 
round  room,  called  the  rotunda.  Uncle  says 
rotunda  means  round.  There  are  some  pic- 
tures there.  One  of  them  is  Washington 
crossing  the  Delaware,  with  great  cakes  of  ice 
beating  up  against  the  boat.  One  of  the  men 
has  a  flag  in  his  hand.  Gypsy  and  I  liked  it 
ever  so  much. 

"Oh! — the  dome  of   the   Capitol   isn't   quite 


finished.  There  is  scaffolding  up  there,  and 
it  doesn't  look  very  pretty. 

"Well,  then  we  went  up-stairs,  and  I  never 
saw  such  handsome  stairs!  They  are  marble, 
and  so  wide!  and  the  banisters  are  the  most 
elegant  variegated  marble, — a  sort  of  dark 
brown,  and  they  are  so  broad !  Why,  I  should 
think  they  were  a  foot  and  a  half  broad,  but 
then  I  don't  know  exactly  how  much  a  foot  is. 

' '  We  went  into  two  rooms  that  Gypsy  and  I 
both  liked  best  of  anything.  One  is  called 
the  Marble  Room,  and  the  other  the  Fresco 
Room.  The  Marble  Room  is  all  made  of 
marble, — walls,  floor,  window-sills,  every- 
thing but  the  furniture.  The  marble  is  of  dif- 
ferent colors  and  patterns,  and  just  as  beautiful ! 
The  furniture  is  covered  with  drab  damask. 

"The  Fresco  Room  is  all  made  of  pictures. 
Frescoes  are  pictures  painted  on  the  ceilings, 
Uncle  says.  He  says  Michael  Angelo,  the 
great  sculptor  and  artist,  used  to  paint  a  great 
many,   and   that   they  are   very   beautiful.     He 


says  he  had  to  lie  flat  on  scaffoldings  while 
h~  was  painting  the  domes  of  great  churches, 
and  that,  by  looking  up  so,  in  that  position, 
he  n^rt  his  eyes  very  much.  This  room  I 
started  to  tell  about  is  real  pretty.  I've  al- 
most forgotten  what  the  furniture  is  covered 
with.  Seems  to  me  it  is  yellow  damask,  or 
else  it's  the  Marble  Room  that's  yellow,  and 
this  is  drab, — or  else— I  declare  !  We've  seen 
so  much  to-day,  I've  got  everything  mixed  up! 

"Uncle  has  just  been  correcting  our  jour- 
nals, and  he  says  it  isn't  proper  to  say  '  I've 
got,'  but  I  ought  to  say  '  I  have.' 

"Oh,  I  forgot  to  say  that  the  Senators' 
wrives  and  daughters  who  are  boarding  here 
are  very  stylish  people.  When  I  grow  up  I 
mean  to  marry  a  Senator,  and  come  to  Wash- 
ington, and  give  great  parties. 

"I  don't  see  why  I  don't  hear  from  father. 
You  know  it's  nearly  three  weeks  now  since  I 
had  a  letter.  I  thought  I  should  have  one 
last  week,  just  as  much  as  could  be." 


GYPSY'S  JOURNAL. 

"  Eight  o'clock,  Monday  Night. 

"Joy  ha?  told  ever  so  much  about  the  Cap- 
itol, and  I  don't  want  to  tell  it  all  over  again. 
If  I  forget  it,  I  can  look  at  her  journal,  you 
know. 

"  But  she  didn't  tell  about  Congress.  Well, 
you  see  if  we'd  come  a  little  later  we  shouldn't 
have  seen  them  at  all;  and  if  it  didn't  happen 
to  be  a  long  session  we  shouldn't  see  them  so 
late  in  the  season.  But  then  we  did.  I'm  very 
glad,  only  I  thought  it  was  rather  stupid. 

"  I  liked  the  halls,  anyway.  They're  splen- 
did, only  there's  a  great  deal  of  yellow  about 
them;  and  then  there  are  some  places  for  pic- 
tures, and  the  pictures  aren't  put  up  yet. 

"  There's  a  gallery  runs  round,  where  visitors 
sit.  The  Senators  and  Representatives  are 
down  on  the  floor.  We  went  into  the  Senate 
first.  They  sat  in  seats  that  curved  round,  and 
the  President  of  the  Senate — that's  Vice-Presi- 
dent Hamlin — he  sits  in  a  sort  of  little  pulpit, 


and  looks  after  things.  If  anybody  wants  to 
speak,  they  have  to  ask  him,  and  he  says,  '  The 
Senator  from  so-and-so  has  the  floor.'  Then 
when  they  get  into  a  fight,  he  has  to  settle  it. 
Isn't  it  funny  in  such  great  grown-up  men  to 
quarrel?  But  they  do,  like  everything.  There 
was  one  man  got  real  mad  at  Mr.  Sumner  to-day. 

"  I  didn't  care  about  what  they  were  talking 
about,  but  it  was  fun  to  look  down  and  see  all 
the  desks  and  papers,  and  some  of  them  were 
just  as  sleepy  as  could  be.  Then  they  kept 
whispering  to  each  other  while  a  man  was 
speaking,  and  sometimes  they  talked  right  out 
loud.  If  I  should  do  that  at  school,  I  guess 
Miss  Cardrew  would  give  it  to  me.  But  what 
I  thought  was  queerest  of  all,  they  all  talked 
right  at  the  Vice-President,  and  kept  saying, 
'Mr.  President,'  and  'Sir,'  just  as  if  there 
weren't  anybody  else  in  the  room. 

"Some  of  the  Senators  are  handsome,  and  a 
good  many  more  aren't.     Joy  stood  up  for  Mr. 

Sumner  because  he  came  from  Massachusetts. 

256 


He  is  a  nice-looking  man,  and  I  had  to  say  so. 
He  has  a  high  forehead,  and  he  looks  exactly 
like  a  gentleman.  Besides,  father  says  he  has 
done  a  noble  work  for  the  country  and  the 
slaves,  and  the  rest  of  New  England  ought  to 
be  just  as  proud  of  him  as  Massachusetts. 

"We  went  into  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives, too,  and  it  was  a  great  deal  noisier  there 
than  it  was  in  the  Senate,  there  were  so  many 
more  of  them.  I  saw  one  man  eating  peanuts. 
Most  all  of  them  looked  hungry.  The  man 
that  sits  up  behind  the  desk  and  takes  care  of 
the  House,  is  called  the  Speaker.  I  think  it's 
real  funny,  because  he  never  makes  a  speech. 
As  we  came  out  of  the  Capitol,  father  turned 
round  and  looked  back  and  said:  'Just  think! 
All  the  laws  that  govern  this  great  country  come 
out  from  there.'  He  said  some  more  about  it, 
too,  but  there  was  the  funniest  little  negro  bov 
peeking  through  the  fence,  and  I  didn't  hear. 

"  We  went  to  the  White  House  next.     Father 

says   it's   something   like  a  palace,    only  some 
257 


palaces  are  handsomer.  It's  white  marble  like 
the  Capitol.  We  went  up  the  steps,  and  a  man 
let  us  right  in.  We  saw  two  rooms.  One  is 
called  the  Red  Room  and  one  the  Green  Room. 

The  Red  Room  is  furnished  in  red  damask 
and  the  Green  is  all  green.  They  were  very 
handsome,  only  all  the  furniture  was  ranged 
along  the  walls,  and  that  made  it  seem  so  big 
and  empty.  Father  says  that's  because  these 
rooms  are  used  for  receptions,  and  there  is 
such  a  crowd. 

"There  is  a  Blue  Room,  too,  that  visitors 
are  sometimes  let  into.  Father  asked  the 
doorkeeper ;  but  he  said,  '  The  family  were  at 
breakfast  in  it.'  That  was  eleven  o'clock!  I 
guess  I'd  like  to  be  a  President's  daughter,  and 
not  have  to  get  up.  We  didn't  see  anything 
more  of  President  Lincoln. 

"  We've  been  going  all  day,  and  we've 
been  to  the  Patent  Office  and  the  Smith- 
sonian Institute,  but  I'm  too  tired  to  say 
anything   about   them." 


GYPSY'S  JOURNAL. 

"  Tuesday. 

"We've  been  over  to  Alexandria  —  that's 
across  the  Potomac  River  —  in  the  funniest 
little  steamboat  you  ever  saw.  When  you 
went  in  or  came  out  of  the  cabin,  you  had 
to  crawl  under  a  stove-pipe.  It  wasn't 
high  enough  to  walk  straight.  I  don't  like 
Alexandria.  It's  all  mud  and  secessionists, 
People  looked  cross,  and  Joy  was  afraid 
they'd  shoot  us.  We  saw  the  house  where 
Col.  Ellsworth  was  shot  at  the  beginning 
of  the  war.  The  man  was  very  polite,  and 
showed  us  round.  The  plastering  around 
the  place  where  he  fell,  and  all  the  stairs, 
had  been  cut  away  by  people  as  relics. 
We  saw  the  church  where  Gen.  Washington 
used    to   go,    too." 

JOY'S   JOURNAL 

"Wednesday  Night. 

"We  are  just  home  from  Mount  Vernon, 
and    we've   had   a   splendid    time.       We    went 


in  a  steamboat;  it's  some  way  from  Wash- 
ington. You  can  go  by  land,  if  you  want 
to.  It  was  real  pleasant.  Gen.  Washington's 
house    was  there,  —  a    queer,     low    old    place, 


and  we   went   all    over  it.     There    was  a   nice 

garden,    and   beautiful    grounds,     with    woods 

clear   down   to    the    water.     He   is    buried    on 
260 


the  place  under  a  marble  tomb,  with  a  sort 
of  brick  shed  all  around  it.  There  is  nothing 
on  the  tomb  but  the  word  Washington. 
His  wife  is  buried  by  him,  and  it  says  on 
hers,  Martha,  Consort  of  Washington.  All 
the  gentlemen  took  off  their  hats  while  we 
stood  there.  To-morrow  we  are  going  to 
Manassas,  if  there  is  a  boat.  Uncle  is  going 
to  see.  I  am  having  a  splendid  time. 
Won't  it  be  nice  telling  father  all  about  it 
when    he   comes   home?" 

Joy  laid  down  her  pen  suddenly.  She 
heard  a  strange  noise  in  her  uncle's  room 
where  he  and  Gypsy  were  sitting.  It  was 
a  sort  of  cry,  — a  low,  smothered  cry,  as 
of  some  one  in  grief  or  pain.  She  shut 
up  her  portfolio  and  hurried  in.  Mr.  Breyn- 
ton  held  a  paper  in  his  hand.  Gypsy  was 
looking  over  his  shoulder,  and  her  face  was 
very    pale. 

"What  is   it?     What's  the  matter?" 

Nobody    answereu. 


Mr.  Breynton  turned  away  his  face.  Gypsy 
broke    out    crying. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter?"  said  Joy, 
looking    alarmed. 

"Joy,  my  poor  child  — "  began  her  uncle. 
But  Gypsy  sprang  forward  suddenly,  and 
threw    her    arms    around    Joy's  neck. 

"Oh,   Joy,   Joy, —  your    father!" 

"Let  me  see  that  paper!"  Joy  caught  it 
before  they  could  stop  her,  opened  it,  read 
it,  —  dropped  it  slowly.  It  was  a  telegram 
from  Yorkbury :  — 

' '  Boston  papers  say  Joy's  father  died  in 
France  two  weeks  ago." 


\\\w 

■©iJEDftY 

•OlGfFpj 


THEY  were  all  together  in  the  par- 
>U\_  lor    at   Yorkbury — Joy  very  still, 

with  her  head  in  her  auntie's  lap.  It  was 
two  weeks  now  since  that  night  when  she 
sat  writing  in  her  journal  at  Washington, 
and  planning  so  happily  for  the  trip  to  Manassas 
that  had  never   been  taken. 

They   had    been    able    to    learn    little   about 
her  father's   death   as  yet.     A   Paris  paper  re- 
ported,  and    Boston    papers  copied,    the   state 
ment  that  an  American  of  his  name,  stopping 
263 


at  an  obscure  French  town,  was  missing  for 
two  days,  and  found  on  the  third,  murdered, 
robbed,  horribly  disfigured.  Mr.  George 
Breynton  had  been  traveling  alone  in  the 
interior  of  the  country,  and  had  written  home 
that  he  should  be  in  this  town — St.  Pierre — 
at  precisely  the  time  given  as  the  date  of 
the  American's  death.  So  his  long  silence 
was  awfully  explained  to  Joy.  The  fact 
that  the  branch  of  his  firm  with  which  he 
had  frequent  business  correspondence,  had 
not  received  the  least  intelligence  of  him 
for  several  weeks,  left  no  doubt  of  the  mourn- 
ful truth.  Something  had  gone  wrong  in 
the  shipping  of  certain  goods,  which  had  re- 
quired his  immediate  presence;  they  had 
therefore  written  and  telegraphed  to  him 
repeatedly,  but  there  had  been  no  reply- 
Day  by  day  the  ominous  silence  had  shaded 
into  alarm,  had  deepened  into  suspense,  had 
grown  into  certainty. 

Mr.  Breynton  had  fought  against  conviction 


as  long  as  he  could,  had  clung  to  all  possi- 
bilities and  impossibilities  of  doubt,  but  even 
he  had  given  up  all  hope. 

Dead — dead,  without  a  sign;  without  one 
last  word  to  the  child  waiting  for  him  across 
the  seas;  without  one  last  kiss  or  blessing; 
dead  by  ruffian  hands,  lying  now  in  an  un- 
known, lonely  grave.  It  seemed  to  Joy  as 
if  her  heart  must  break.  She  tried  to  fly 
from  the  horrible,  haunting  thought,  to  for- 
get it  in  her  dreams,  to  drown  it  in  her 
books  and  play.  But  she  could  not  leave  it; 
it  would  not  leave  her.  It  must  be  taken 
down  into  her  heart  and  kept  there;  she  and 
it  must  be  always  alone  together;  no  one 
could  come  between  them ;  no  one  could  help 
her. 

And  so  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  take 
that  dreary  journey  home  from  Washington, 
come  quietly  back  to  Yorkbury,  come  back 
without  father  or  mother,  into  the  home  that 
must   be    hers  now,   the   only  one   left    her   in 


all  the  wide  world;  nothing  to  do  but  to  live 
on,  and  never  to  see  him  any  more,  never  to 
kiss  him,  never  to  creep  up  into  his  arms,  or 
hear  his  brave,  merry  voice  calling,  "Joyce, 
Joyce,"  as  it  used  to  call  about  the  old  home. 
No  ct;e  called  her  Joyce  but  her  father.  No 
one  should  ever  call  her  so   again. 

Tom    called    her   so   one   day,    never   thin^ 
ing. 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  that — not  that  name," 
said  Joy,  flushing  suddenly;  then  paling  and 
turning  away. 

She  was  very  still  now.  Since  the  first  few 
days  she  seldom  cried;  or  if  she  did,  it  was 
when  she  was  away  alone  in  the  dark,  with 
no  one  to  see  her.  She  had  grown  strangely 
silent,  strangely  gentle  and  thoughtful  for 
Joy.  Sorrow  was  doing  for  her  what  it 
does  for  so  many  older  and  better;  and  in 
her  frightened,  childish  way,  Joy  was  suffer- 
ing  all    that    she    could   suffer. 

Perhaps    only    Gypsy   knew   just   how  much 


it  was.  The  two  girls  had  been  drawn  very 
near  to  each  other  these  past  few  weeks. 
It  seemed  to  Gypsy  as  if  the  grief  were 
almost  her  own,  she  felt  so  sorry  for  Joy; 
she  had  grown  very  gentle  to  her,  very 
patient  with  her,  very  thoughtful  for  her 
comfort.  They  were  little  ways  in  which 
she  could  show  this,  but  these  little  ways 
are  better  than  any  words.  When  she  left 
her  own  merry  play  with  the  girls  to  hunt 
up  Joy  sitting  somewhere  alone  and  miser- 
able, and  coax  her  out  into  the  sunlight,  or 
sit  beside  her  and  tell  funny  stories  till  the 
smiles  came  wandering  back  against  their  will 
to  Joy's  pale  face;  when  she  slid  her  straw- 
berry tarts  into  Joy's  desk  at  recess,  or 
stole  up-stairs  after  her  with  a  handful  of 
peppermints  bought  with  her  own  little 
weekly  allowance,  or  threw  her  arms  around 
her  so  each  night  with  a  single,  silent  kiss. 
or  came  up  sometimes  in  the  dark  and  cried 
with  her,  without  saying  a  word,  Joy  was  not 
267 


unmindful  nor  ungrateful.  She  noticed  it  all, 
everything;  out  of  her  grief  she  thanked  her 
with  all  her  heart,  and  treasured  up  in  her 
memory  to  love  for  all  her  life  the  Gypsy 
of  these  sad  days. 

They  were  in  the  parlor  together  on  this 
Sunday  night,  as  I  said,  —  all  except  Mr. 
Breynton,  who  had  been  for  several  days  in 
Boston,  settling  his  brother's  affairs,  and 
making  arrangements  to  sell  the  house  for 
joy;  it  was  her  house  now,  that  handsome 
place  in  Beacon  Street,  and  that  seemed  so 
strange, —  strange   to  Joy  most  of  all. 

They  were  grouped  around  the  room  in 
the  fading  western  light,  Gypsy  and  Tom  to- 
gether by  the  window,  Winnie  perched  de- 
murely on  the  piano-stool,  and  Joy  on  the 
cricket  at  Mrs.  Breynton's  feet.  The  faint 
light  was  touching  her  face,  and  her  mourn- 
ful dress  with  its  heavy  crape  trimmings, — 
there  were  no  white  chenille  and  silver 
brooches  now;  Joy  had  laid  these  things 
268 


aside  of  her  own  wish.  It  is  a  very  small 
matter,  to  be  sure,  this  mourning;  but  in 
Joy's  case  it  mirrored  her  real  grief  very 
completely.  The  something  which  she  had 
not  felt  when  her  mother  died,  she  felt  now, 
to  the  full.  She  had  a  sort  of  notion. —  an 
ignorant,  childish  notion,  but  very  real  to 
her,  —  that  it  was  wicked  to  wear  bows  and 
hair-ribbons  now. 

She  had  been  sitting  so  for  some  time, 
with  her  head  in  her  aunt's  lap,  quite  silent. 
her  eyes  looking  off  through  the  window. 

"Why  not  have  a  little  singing?"  said 
Mrs.  Breynton,  in  her  pleasant,  hushed 
voice;  —  it  was  always  a  little  different 
somehow,   Sunday  nights;  a  little  more  quiet. 

Gyps)''  went  to  the  piano,  and  usurped 
Winnie's  throne  on  the  stool,  much  to  that 
young  gentleman's  disgust. 

"What  shall  it  be,   mother?" 

''  Joy's  hymn,   dear." 

Gypsy  began,    without    further  explanation, 
269 


to  play  a  low,  sweet  prelude, 
and  then  they  sang  through 
the  hymn  that  Joy  had 
learned  and  loved  in  these 
few  desolate  weeks: 

"  There  is  an  eye  that  never  sleeps 
Beneath  the   wing    of  night ; 

There   is    an    ear  that   never  shuts 
When  sink   the  beams   of  light. 

•'  There    is   an  arm  that  never  tires 
When   human  strength   gives   way ; 

There   is  a  love  that  never  fails 
When  earthly  loves   decay." 

Joy  tried  to  sing,  but  just  there  she  broke 
down.  Gypsy's  voice  faltered  a  little,  and 
Mrs.    Breynton    sang    very    softly  to  the  end. 

After  that  they  were  all  still;  Joy  had 
hidden  her  face.  Tom  began  to  hum  over 
the  tune  uneasily,  in  his  deep  bass.  A  sud- 
den   sob    broke  into  it. 

"  This  is  what  makes  it  all  so  different." 
'    "What,   dear?" 


"The  singing,  and  the  prayers,  and  the 
Sunday  nights;  it's  been  making  me  think 
about  being  a  good  girl,  ever  since  I've  been 
here.     We  never  had  any  at  home.     Father — " 

But  she  did  not  finish.  She  rose  and  went 
over  to  the  western  window,  away  from  the 
rest,  where  no  one  could  see  her  face. 

The  light  was  dimming  fast;  it  was  nearly 
dark  now,  and  the  crickets  were  chirping  in 
the    distant  meadows. 

Tom  coughed,  and  came  very  near  trying  to 
whistle.  Gypsy  screwed  the  piano-stool  round 
with  a  sudden  motion,  and  went  over  to  where 
Joy  stood. 

Tom  and  his  mother  began  to  talk  in  a  low 
voice,  and  the  two  girls  were  as  if  alone. 

The  first  thing  Gypsy  did,  was  to  put  her 
arms  round  Joy's  neck  and  kiss  her.  Joy  hid 
her  face  on  her  shoulder  and  cried  softly. 
Then  Gypsy  choked  a  little,  and  for  a  while 
they  cried  together. 

"  You  see  I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Gypsy. 


"  I  know  it, — I  know  it.  Oh,  Gypsy,  if  I 
could  see  him  just  one  minute  !  " 

Gypsy  only  gave  her  a  little  hug  in  answer. 
Then  presently,  as  the  best  thing  she  could 
think  of  to  say: 

"We'll  go  strawberrymg  to-morrow,  and 
I'll  save  you  the  very  best  place.  Besides, 
I've  got  a  tart  up-stairs  I've  been  saving  for 
you,  and  you  can  eat  it  when  we  go  up  to  bed. 
I  think  things  taste  real  nice  in  bed.  Don't 
you  ? " 

"  Look  here,  Gypsy,  do  you  know  I  love 
you  ever  so  much?" 

"You  do!  Well,  isn't  that  funny?  I  was 
just  thinking  how  much  I  loved  you.  Be- 
sides, I'm  real  glad  you're  going  to  live  here 
always." 

"Why,  I  thought  you'd  be  sorry." 

"I  should  have  once,"  said  Gypsy  honestly. 
"  But  that's  because  I  was  ugly.  I  don't  think 
I  could  get  along  without  you  possibly — no, 
not   anyway   in    the    world.       Just    think   how 


long  we've  slept  together,  and  what  '  gales ' 
we  do  get  into  when  our  lamp  goes  out  and 
we  can't  find  the  matches!  You  see  I  never 
had  anybody  to  get  into  gales  with  before." 

Somebody  rang  the  door-bell  just  then,  and 
the  conversation  was  broken  up. 

"Joy,  have  you  a  mind  to  go?"  asked  Mrs. 
Breynton.      "  Patty  is  out,  this  evening." 

"Why!  whoever  it  is,  they've  come  right 
in,"  said  Joy,  opening  the  door. 

A  man  was  there  in  the  entry; — a  man  with 
heavy  whiskers  and  a  valise. 

The  rest  of  them  sitting  back  there  in  the 
dark  waited,  wondering  a  little  who  it  could 
be  coming  in  Sunday  night.  And  this  is  what 
they  heard : 

"Joyce,  little  Joyce! — why,  don't  be  fright- 
ened, child;  it's  nobody  but  father." 


THEY  were  alone  to- 
gether in  the  quiet  room — Peace  Maythorne 
and  Joy.  The  thick  yellow  sunlight  fell  in, 
touching  the  old  places,  — the  wall  where 
Gypsy's  blue  and  golden  text  was  hanging, — a 
little  patch  of  the  faded  carpet,  the  bed,  and 
the  folded  hands  upon  it,  and  the  peaceful 
face. 

Joy   had    crept    up    somewhat    timidly   into 
Gypsy's   place   close   by  the  pillow.     She  was 


talking,  half  sadly,  half  gladly,  as  if  she  hardly 
knew  whether  to  laugh  or  cry. 

"You  see,  we're  going  right  off  in  this  noon 
train,  and  I  thought  I  must  come  over  and  say 
good-bye." 

"  I'm  real  sorry  to  have  you  go — real." 

"Are  you?"  said  Joy,  looking  pleased. 
"Well,  I  didn't  suppose  you'd  care.  I  do 
believe  you  care  for  everybody,  Peace." 

"I  try  to."  said  Peace,  smiling.  "  Yo-a  go 
in  rather  a  hurry,  don't  you  Joy?" 

"  Yes.  It's  just  a  week  since  father  came. 
He  wants  to  stay  a  while  longer,  dreadfully, 
but  he  says  his  business  at  home  can't  be  put 
off,  and  of  course  I'm  going  with  him.  Do 
you  know,  Peace,  I  can't  bear  to  have  him  out 
of  the  room  five  minutes,  I'm  so  silly.  It 
seems  all  the  time  as  if  I  were  dreaming  a 
real  beautiful  dream,  and  when  I  woke  up, 
the  awful  days  would  come  back,  and  he'd  be 
dead  again.  I  keep  wanting  to  kiss  him  and 
feel  of  him   all  the  time." 


•■You  poor  child!"  said  Peace,  her  eyes 
dimming  a  little,  "how  strange  it  all  has 
been.     How  good  He's  been  to  you — God." 

"I  know  it.  I  know  He  has,  Peace. 
Wasn't  it  queer  how  it  all  came  about?  Gypsy 
says  nobody  but  God  could  have  managed  it 
so,  and  Auntie  says  He  must  have  had  some 
very  good  reason. 

"You  see,  father  was  sick  all  that  time  in  a 
little  out-of-the-way  French  town  with  not  a 
single  soul  he  knew,  and  nobody  to  talk  Eng- 
lish, and  so  sick  he  couldn't  write  a  word— out 
of  his  head,  he  says,  all  the  time.  That's  why 
I  didn't  hear,  nor  the  firm.  Then  wasn't  it  so 
strange  about  that  man  who  was  murdered  at 
St.  Pierre'  —  the  very  same  name  —  George 
Breynton,  only  it  was  George  W.  instead  of 
George  M. ;  but  that  they  didn't  find  out  till 
afterwards.  Poor  man !  I  wonder  if  he  has 
anybody  crying  for  him  over  here.  Then  you 
know,  just  as  soon  as  ever  father  got  well 
enough  to  travel,  he  started  straight  home. 
275 


He  said  he'd  had  enough  of  Europe,  and  if  he 
ever  lived  to  get  home,  he  wouldn't  go  another 
.  time  without  somebody  with  him.  It  wasn't 
'  so  very  pleasant,  he  said,  to  come  so  near 
1  dying  with  nobody  round  that  you  knew,  and 
not  to  hear  a  word  of  your  own  language. 
Then,  you  know,  he  got  into  Boston  Saturday, 
and  he  hurried  straight  up  here ;  but  the  train 
only  went  as  far  as  Rutland,  and  stopped  at 
midnight.  Then,  you  see,  he  was  so  crazy  to 
see  me  and  let  me  know  he  wasn't  dead,  he 
couldn't  possibly  wait;  so  he  hired  a  carriage 
and  drove  all  the  way  over  Sunday.  And  oh, 
Peace,  when  I  saw  him  out  there  in  the  en- 
try!" 

"  I  guess  you  said  your  prayers  that  night," 
!  said  Peace,  smiling. 

"I  rather  guess  I  did!  And  Peace,  that 
makes  me  think " — Joy  grew  suddenly  very 
grave;  there  was  an  earnest,  thoughtful  look 
in  her  eyes  that  Joy's  eyes  did  not  have  when 
she  first  came  to  Yorkbury;  a  look  that  they 


had  been  slowly  learning  all  this  year;  that 
they  had  been  very  quickly  learning  these  past 
few  weeks — "When  I  get  home  it's  going  to 
be  hard — a  good  many  things  are  going  to  be 
hard." 

"Yes,  I  see."  said  Peace,  musingly.  Peace 
always  seemed  to  see  just  what  other  people 
were  living  and  hoping  and  fearing,  without 
any  words  from  them  to  explain  it. 

"  It's  all  so  different  from  what  it  is  here.  I 
don't  wTant  to  forget  what  you've  told  me  and 
Auntie's  told  me.  Almost  everybody  I  know 
at  home  doesn't  care  for  what  you  do  up  here 
in  Yorkbury.  I  used  to  think  about  dancing- 
school,  and  birthday  parties,  and  rigging  up. 
and  summer  fashions,  and  how  many  diamonds 
I'd  have  when  I  was  married,  and  all  that,  the 
whole  of  the  time,  Peace — the  whole  of  it; 
then  I  got  mad  when  my  dresses  didn't  fit, 
and  I  used  to  strike  Therese  and  Kate,  if  you'll 
believe  it — when  I  was  real  angry  that  was. 
Now,  up  here,  somehow  I'm  ashamed  when  I 
27s 


miss  at  school;  then  sometimes  I  help  Auntie 
a  little,  and  sometimes  I  do  try  not  to  be  cross. 
Now,  you  see,  I'm  going  back,  and  father  he 
thinks  the  world  of  me,  and  let's  me  do  every- 
thing I  want  to,  and  I'm  afraid" — Joys  topped, 
puzzled  to  express  herself — "I'm  afraid  I 
shall  do  everything  I  want  to." 

Peace  smiled,  and  seemed  to  be  thinking. 

"Then,  you  see,  I  shall  grow  up  a  cross, 
old  selfish  woman,"  said  Joy  dolefully;  "Auntie 
says  people  grow  selfish  that  have  every- 
thing their  own  way.  You  see,  up  here 
there's  been  Gypsy,  and  she  wanted  things 
just  as  much  as  I,  so  there's  been  two 
ways,   and  that's   the  thing  of  it." 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  to  grow  up  self- 
ish," said  Peace,  slowly;  "no,  I  am  sure  you 
needn't." 

"Well,   I  wish  you'd  tell  me  how." 

"Ask  Him  not  to  let  you,"  said  Peace 
softly. 

Joy  colored. 


"I  know  it;  I've  thought  of  that.  But 
there's  another  trouble.  You  see,  father  — 
well,  he  doesn't  care  about  those  things. 
He  never  has  prayers  nor  anything,  and  he 
used  to  bring  me  novels  to  read  Sundays. 
I  read  them  then.  I've  got  all  out  of  the 
way  of  it  up  here.  I  don't  think  I  should 
want  to,  now." 

"Joy,"  said  Peace  after  a  silence.  "I 
think — -I  guess,  you  must  help  your  father 
a  little.  If  he  sees  you  doing  right,  perhaps, 
—  he  loves  you  so  very  much,  —  perhaps 
by-and-by  he  will  feel  differently." 

Joy  made  no  answer.  Her  eyes  looked 
off  dreamily  through  the  window;  her 
thoughts  wandered  away  from  Peace  and 
the  quiet  room  —  away  into  her  future, 
which  the  young  girl  seemed  to  see  just 
then,  with  grave,  prophetic  glance;  a  future 
of  difficulty,  struggle,  temptation;  of  old 
habits  and  old  teachings  to  be  battled  with; 
of  new  ones  to  be  formed;  of  much  to  learn 
280 


and  unlearn,  and  try,  and  try  again ;  but  per- 
haps—  she  still  seemed  to  see  with  the 
young  girl's  earnest  eyes  that  for  the  mo- 
ment had  quite  outgrown  the  child  —  a 
future  faithfully  lived  and  well;  not  frittered 
away  in  beautiful  playing  only,  but  filled  up 
with  something;  more  than  that,  a  future 
which  should  be  a  long  thank-offering  to 
God  for  this  great  mercy  He  had  shown 
her,  this  great  blessing  He  had  given  her 
back  from  the  grave;  a  future  in  which, 
perhaps,  they  two  who  were  so  dear  to 
each  other,  should  seek  Him  together  — ■ 
a   future   that   he   could    bless   to    them    both. 

Peace  quite  understood  the  look  with  which 
she  turned  at  last,  half  sobbing,  to  kiss  hef 
good-bye. 

"I  must  go,  —  it  is  very  late.  Thank  vou, 
Peace.     Thank  you  as  long  as  I  live." 

She  looked  back  in  closing  the  door,  to 
see  the  quiet  face  that  lay  so  patiently  on 
the  pillow,  to  see  the  stillness  of  the 
folded  hands,   to  see  the  last,   rare  smile. 


She  wondered,  half  guessing  the  truth,  if 
she  should  ever  see  it  again.     She  never  did. 

They  were  all  wondering  what  had  be- 
come   of   her,    when  she  came  into  the  house. 

"We  start  in  half  an  hour,  Joyce,  my 
dear,"  said  her  father,  catching  her  up  in 
his  arms  for  a  kiss;  —  he  almost  always 
kissed  her  now  when  she  had  been  fifteen 
minutes  out  of  his  sight, — "We  start  in  half 
an  hour,  and  you  won't  have  any  more  than 
time  to  eat  your  lunch." 

Mrs.  Breynton  had  spread  one  of  her  very 
"~"ry  best  lunches  on  the  dining-room  table, 
and  Joy's  chair  was  ready  and  waiting  for 
her,  and  everybody  stood  around,  in  that 
way  people  will  stand,  when  a  guest  is  go- 
ing away,  not  knowing  exactly  what  to  do 
or  what  to  say,  but  looking  very  sober. 
And  very  sober  they  felt;  they  had  all 
learned  to  love  Joy  in  this  year  she  had  spent 
among  them,  and  it  Was  dreary  enough  to 
see  her    trunks    packed    and    strapped    in  the 


entry,  and  her  closet  shelves  upstairs  empty, 
and  all  little  traces  of  her  about  the  house 
vanishing  fast. 

"  Come  along,"  said  Gypsy  in  a  savage 
undertone,  "Come  and  eat,  and  let  the  rest 
stay  out  here.  I've  hardly  set  eyes  on  you 
all  the  morning.  I  must  have  you  all  my- 
self now." 

"Oh  hum!"  said  Joy,  attempting  a  currant 
tart,  and  throwing  it  down  with  one  little 
semi-circular  bite  in  it.  "  So  I'm  really  off, 
and  this  is  the  very  last  time  I  shall  sit  at 
this   table." 

"  Hush  up,  if  you  please!"  observed  Gypsy, 
Winking  hard,   "just  eat  your  tart." 

Joy  cut  off  a  delicate  mouthful  of  the  cold 
tongue,  and  then  began  to  look  around  the 
room. 

"The  last  time  I  shall  see  Winnie's  blocks, 
and  that  little  patch  of  sunshine  on  the  ma- 
chine, and  the  big  Bible  on  the  book-case! 
—  Oh,  how  I  shall  think  about  them  all 
2S3 


nights,  when  I'm  sitting  down  by  the  grate 
at    home." 

"  Stop  talking  about  your  last  times!  It's 
bad  enough  to  have  you  go  anyway.  I 
don't  know  what    I    shall  do  without   you." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  without 
you,  I'm  sure,"  said  Joy,  shaking  her  head 
mournfully,  "but  then,  you  know,  we're  going 
to  write  to  each  other  twice  every  single 
week." 

"I  know  it,  —  every  week  as  long  as  we 
live,    remember." 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  forget.  I'm  going  to  make 
father  buy  me  some  pink  paper  and  en- 
velopes with  Love  stamped  up  in  the  corners, 
on  purpose." 

"  Anyway,  it's  a  great  deal  worse  for  me," 
said  Gypsy,  forlornly.  "You're  going  to 
Boston,  and  to  open  the  house  again  and  all, 
and  have  ever  so  much  to  think  about.  I'm 
just  going  on  and  on,  and  you  won't  be  up- 
stairs when  I  go  to  bed,  and  your  things 
284 


won't  ever  be  hanging  out  on  the  nails  in 
the  entry,  and  I'll  have  to  go  to  school  alone, 
and  —  O  dear  me!" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  you  do  have  the  worst  of 
it,"  said  Joy,  feeling  a  great  spasm  of  mag- 
nanimity in  bringing  herself  to  say  this;  "but 
it's  pretty  bad  for  me,  and  I  don't  believe 
you  can  feel  worse  than  I  do.  Isn't  it  funny 
in  us  to  love  each  other  so  much?" 

"Real,"  said  Gypsy,  trying  to  laugh,  with 
two  bright  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 
Both  the  girls  were  thinking  just  then  of  joy's 
coming  to  Yorkbury.  How  strange  that  it 
should  have  been  so  hard  for  Gypsy;  that  it 
had  cost  her  a  sacrifice  to  welcome  her  cousin ; 
how  strange  that  they  could  ever  have  quar- 
reled so;  how  strange  all  those  ugly,  dark 
memories  of  the  first  few  months  they  spent 
together — the  jealousy,  the  selfishness,  the  dis,- 
like  of  each  other,  the  constant  fretting  and 
jarring,  the  longing  for  the  time  that  should 
separate  them.  And  now  it  had  come,  and 
28s 


here  they  sat  looking  at  each  other  and  cry- 
ing— quite  sure  their  hearts  were  broken ! 

The  two  tears  rolled  down  into  Gypsy's 
smile,  and  she  swallowed  them  before  she 
spoke: 

"I  do  believe  it's  all  owing  to  that  verse!" 

"What  verse  ? " 

"Why,  Peace  Maythorne's.  I  suppose  she 
and  mother  would  say  we'd  tried  somehow  or 
other  to  prefer  one  another  in  honor,  you 
know,  and  that's  the  thing  of  it.  Because  you 
see  I  know  if  I'd  always  had  everything  my 
own  way,  I  shouldn't  have  liked  you  a  bit, 
and  I'd  have  been  real  glad  when  you  went 
off." 

"Joyce,  Joyce!"  called  her  father  from  the 
entry,  "  Here's  the  coach.  It's  time  to  be 
getting  ready  to  cry  and  kiss  all  around." 

"  Oh — hum  !  "  said  Gypsy. 

"I  know  it,"  said  Joy,  not  very  clear  as  to 
what  she  was  talking  about.  "  Where's  my 
bag  ?     Oh,  yes.     And  my  parasol  ?     Oh  there's 


Winnie  riding  horseback  on  it.  Well,  Gypsy, 
go — od — " 

"  Bye,"  finished  Gypsy,  with  a  great  sob. 
And  oh,  such  a  hugging  and  kissing  as  there 
was  then! 

Then  Joy  was  caught  in  her  Auntie's 
arms,  and  Tom's  and  Winnie's  all  at  once, 
it  seemed  to  her,  for  the  coachman  was 
in  a  very  great  hurry,  and  by  the  time  she 
was  in  the  coach  seated  by  her  father,  she 
found  she  had  quite  spoiled  her  new  kid 
gloves,    rubbing  her  eyes. 

"Good-bye,"  called  Gypsy,  waving  one  of 
Winnie's  old  jackets,  under  the  impression 
that  it  was  a  handkerchief. 

"Twice  every  week!" 

"Yes  —  sure:    on    pink    paper,     remember." 

"Yes,  and  envelopes.  Good-bye.  Good- 
bye ! " 

So  the  last  nodding  and  smiling  was  over, 
and  the  coach  rattled  away,  and  the  house 
with  the  figures  on  the  steps  grew  dim  and 
287 


faded  from  sight, 
and  the  train 
whirled  Joy  on 
over  the  moun- 
tains —  away  into 
that  future  of 
which  she  sat 
thinking-  in  Peace 
Maythorne's  room, 
of  which  she  sat 
thinking  now, 
with  earnest  eyes, 
looking  off 
through  the  car- 
window,  with 
many   brave  young  hopes,    and   little    fear. 

"You'd  just  better  come  into  the  dining- 
room,"  said  Winnie  to  Gypsy,  who  was  stand- 
ing out  in  the  yard,  remarkably  interested 
in  the  lilac-bush,  and  under  the  very 
curious  impression  that  people  thought  she 
wasn't   crying.      "I  think    it's  real    nice  Joy's 

2dS 


MuftflitoiijGbuA—fi* 


gone,  'cause  she  didn't  eat  up  her  luucheon. 
There's  a  piece  of  pounded  cake  with  sugar 
on  top.  There  were  were  tarts  with  squince- 
jelly  in  'em  too,  but  the}7  —  well,  they  ain't 
there  now,  some  ways  or  nuther." 


281) 


8zzeze8eooo 


niH  13dVH0  IV  ON  dO  XilSa3AINf1 


